Dudley Dursley and the New Normal
by alikat522
Summary: Bad things happen. Life gets strange. Dudley tries to carve out a little bit of normality in a world that has gone mad around him.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story was originally written for the Dudley Redeemed fest. Huge thanks to my beta, Little Miss Artemis, and all of the mods at Dudley Redeemed.

Ch. 1

He sat alone in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants, eating straight from a can of chili. He was glad that the dining table had survived the attack, even though it was just something to rest his elbows on during breakfast. This was one of the three best parts of his day. The other two were lunch and dinner. After all these years of diets and exercise and work, food remained his source of comfort, the thing he always came back to.

He had gone through all of the perishables first, starting with everything in the broken refrigerator. No point in letting the milk and meat go bad, just because his world had ended. He had made sure to ration it out, always eating the things that were about to go (or had already gone a bit) first. Ignore the yellow bananas, the brown ones had to be eaten now. But he had apparently been too cautious about saving for later, and eventually had to admit that the fuzzy white hamburger at the back was no longer safe. So he moved onto the cans.

By his reckoning, he had another two weeks on three meals a day. He knew he should cut down to two meals, or perhaps even one, to make it last longer. But he couldn't bring himself to pass up one of the only things he looked forward to every day. The television was broken, his computer was buried underneath rubber, presumably smashed, and there was only so long any book could hold his attention. There was nothing to do here but eat. And wait for the food to run out.

He had given up hope of being found before he starved. Obviously normal people couldn't break through the magical barriers surrounding the house. And apparently they had been worried that his father would have stormed out at some point, because the spells worked both ways. No, the only people coming in would have wands. He would rather die alone than let that happen again.

Hell, he would rather he died before next week. That would be a lot of issues taken care of. He wouldn't have to see the last of the cans go. He wouldn't have to contemplate going into the drawing room again.

He wouldn't have to see the moon again.

Nine more days, according to the calendar. But what about the beginning, when he had blacked out for stretches? Who could say which night it had been, when the last thing he remembered had been morning? How much time had he lost, and when would he have to face the next full moon? The calendar had lunar symbols, though. If he lived long enough to worry about it, he would have a solid answer on the date. A solid promise that he had spent two months of his life here, in this cage that used to be his home.

He finished off the chili, scraping the inside of the can with his spoon to gather every last drop. He rinsed it in the kitchen sink and drank the sauce-filled water; he wasn't going to waste anything. Threw the can into the overflowing bin and went over to the calendar hanging beside the ever-silent telephone. He had spied Jones using it plenty of times, when she thought that no one was listening, but for every time he tried, there was no dial tone, and no amount of button mashing made any difference. He marked the first of three X's on the square for that day.

Now it was just a matter of finding something to occupy himself with until lunch.

He figured he could go wash up and get dressed. The level upstairs was largely intact, and the piping all seemed to be working, so at least he didn't have two month's worth of dirt and muck on him. And the gashes in his side were bad enough without infection setting in. Sure, he wanted to die, but he'd rather go get friendly with a steak knife than rot away bit by bit, decomposing by day and falling to pieces at night.

The same way the beings in the drawing room were decaying.

-/-

His clothes kept growing larger and larger. Some of them must have shrunk during his attempt at washing them in the tub, but despite that they still hung off of him in loose folds. He reflected upon Diggle's long dragging robes, and wondered if he would ever end up looking that weird.

No. He'd probably just end up looking like his cousin, wearing bigger people's hand-me-downs. Or whatever you called it when the people were the same age. Hand-me-acrosses?

He pulled on a faded blue jumper over his head, careful to not brush the bandages too much, pausing every now and then to figure out how best to avoid the pain. The jumper was still a bit damp; Diggle and Jones would do everything with their wands, so they didn't see a need for a washer or dryer. And they never expected a time where they wouldn't be there. Diggle and Jones were supposed to be around all the time to take care of everything, so no problem there.

No problem at all.

He had considered getting mad at them, right after it happened. Weren't they supposed to be the ones protecting the family? Weren't they what made it a "safe" house? But the anger had died out relatively quickly; he simply hadn't had the energy to keep it up. The two weeks directly afterwards had been a hazy blur, punctuated only by meals. By the time he was all the way back in his mind, he was just too numb to care. And besides, it seemed in poor taste to speak ill of the dead.

Four and a half more hours until lunchtime. He was clean, he was dressed, and he was ready for whatever the day had in store.

He stared out the window for two hours.

The house was as clean as it was going to get, with the wreckage all pushed to the sides and the bloodstains mostly mopped away. He had reached a particular boring part in the book he was slogging through and his side hurt too much for weight training. Boxing with the shadows got old after a while. If he went back to bed, his whole schedule would be off. So he sat. And he watched. And he waited.

The house was one of the only landmarks in sight, aside from scattered trees here and there that dotted the skyline. There was a small town over the hills, but way out of sight and far out of reach, so who cared? He had gone there a few times, escorted by Diggle, who had warned about "the dangers of too much time in limited company".

Heh.

A thin road wound past the house, and a few times a day cars would drive by as they went on their business. He watched those, and wondered who might be in them. He watched birds. He watched trees. It's like a very slow television show, he told himself. And he had killed plenty of hours watching those types of shows over the years. This was no different. This was the new normal.

Two and a half hours until lunchtime.

**Muggle-Borns and Other Expatriates Begin Return to England**

Officials have noticed a large rise in the number of people returning to Britain as it passes one full month since the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Those who previously felt ostracized by the Ministry of Magic, or threatened by the power of the Death Eaters, are now quietly optimistic that it is safe for them to return to their homes and businesses. This raises hopes that the healing process has begun, and that life may return to normal in Britain.

Of course, the surge of people also means new challenges and complications. Many fled the country under questionable circumstances, and it may be difficult to determine between those who went into hiding out of general fear, and those who wished to run from a trail of guilt. Some worry that, amidst the crowds of good, honest people returning to their homes, there may also be an influx of undesirables, who mean further threat to the wizarding world.


	2. Chapter 2

Ch 2

They were coming.

It was dinnertime, and he was slurping up chicken noodle soup. He paused as the last of Diggle and Jones' alarms rang throughout the house, sounding weaker than they had before. Did that mean the barrier was weaker too?

He considered hiding. The attic door was fairly small and unobtrusive, maybe they would overlook it. He considered grabbing a knife, even the big cleaver. Maybe he could get in a few shots before they blasted him to bits. A dozen options flew through his head. But none held much appeal.

He cast a glance at the can he had been eating from. Damned if he was gonna move until he finished his soup.

The sirens cut off abruptly and were replaced by a low hum. From the front room, the he could hear the very thick locks click open one by one. His hand clenched on the can.

"So do you think your cousin would let me look at his computer? I really just want to see it turn on, and maybe get a look at the louse."

"Mouse, actually. And I'll see if he-"

The voices cut off shortly. A third man spoke, with a heavy, deep voice that echoed slightly in the hall.

"Wands out. Spread and check the first floor for survivors."

That blood stain in the entrance hall had been hard to clean off; it still clung to all the rough edges of the hole in the wall.

Footsteps penetrated further and further into the house. One of them coughed; he had come to forget the smell, but imagined it was quite impressive to newcomers. He took another spoonful of soup.

The door to the drawing room creaked open. That door had driven Dad crazy, squeaking all the time. But he hadn't been able to bring himself to ask Diggle to fix it. So creaky it remained.

The low voice called out to the others.

"Got bodies here!"

He could hear the sounds of running footsteps as the other two men dashed over. The smell had to be even worse in there, he imagined. Sick and cloying. They would walk in, down the narrow path that he had cleared. Which would they investigate first? The crumpled canine form shoved into the corner? The bloody hand next to it, which had been a paw at first, before it transformed before his eyes? Or would they go straight for the white sheets, the ones covering the other things? The mangled, broken, chewed up creatures that used to be Dig-…Dedalus. Hestia. Dad. Mum. Would they look closely at the bites?

Would they notice the newer ones?

His soup can was finally empty. He rinsed it, drank the water, chucked the can, and marked the calendar. All the parts of his daily meal time ritual. The sound would draw them into the kitchen, but there was no use waiting any longer. Whatever was about to happen would happen. At least he could face it with a full stomach.

The tall black man entered first, wand drawn. The long months with Dedalus and Hestia meant he no longer flinched at the sight of the wooden sticks, but pigs' tails and giant tongues are not easily forgotten.

Speaking of tongues, the red-haired man of years past entered the kitchen next. His face looked drawn and tense, and he got the impression it wasn't entirely a new development. His wand was pointed out as well.

He raised his weaponless hands above his head. The men didn't seem to want to hurt him. And any moment, the third would enter, and unless he had some other cousin-

Yes. There he was. Just about a year had passed since he had seen him last, but the two of them both looked as if they had aged a decade.

The silence in the kitchen seemed almost tangible. How did one even begin at moments like these? Might as well start with the basics.

"Hi, Harry."

"…Hi there, Dudley. How are you?"

"…Been better."

**Aurors Found Dead Following Werewolf Attack**

Yesterday, Aurors and known members of the so-called "Order of the Phoenix" Hestia Jones, 29, and Dedalus Diggle, 62, were found murdered, along with two Muggles, who they were presumably trying to protect. Evidence points to a werewolf attack, yet another in a string of horrific crimes inflicted upon the wizarding and Muggle communities alike by these creatures. One werewolf was defeated in the battle, but others appear to have escaped to an unknown location.

The killing supposedly took place almost two months ago, before the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but the recent calm has done little to quell public fears over the exponentially increased number of werewolves in England today. With the Ministry in a state of flux and rebuilding, many ask their government officials: what can be done about this continuing threat? Who will step up and make sure that those who made it through the Second Wizarding War have not survived simply to fall victim to the growing Werewolf Scourge?

Services for Diggle and Jones will be held soon in London.


	3. Chapter 3

Ch 3

The car ride to the safe house had been incredibly uncomfortable, Dudley recalled thinking. His mother had clutched her arms around herself the entire ride, trying to touch Hestia, who shared the backseat with the two of them, as little as possible. His father sat in the driver's seat and silently fumed; drumming his fingers on the dash board, mumbling to himself now and then to the tune of "kicked out of my own home" and "tell _me_ how to deal with the boy". Diggle seemed off in his own world, humming softly and looking out the window. Hestia, on the other hand, did not pretend to have forgotten about the conversation at the house. He would usually have been happy to be sitting so close to a pretty older woman, but the iciness coming off of her was so strong, he tried to avoid eye contact at all costs. The trip had been blessedly short, just far enough out of town so that no one would notice when the two magicians grabbed them by the hands and transported them across the country to their new home. He hadn't really cared for that teleportation thing; the weight around his body brought to mind the icy chill and nightmares of two summers before. When he had opened his eyes, he was in front of the small house that would be their new, supposedly safer, home. All because his cousin was out doing things that could get them all killed.

This second trip didn't look like it would be a walk in the park. But awkwardness and uncertainty aside, he still had to pause and take it all in when he set foot over the doorway and out into the night air. He was out. There was grass beneath his trainers, and a packed bag across his shoulders, ready to be taken somewhere, anywhere, else. Life wasn't perfect; but he wasn't going to starve in a lonely little kitchen while his family decomposed in the next room.

A definite improvement.

The car was clearly supposed to hold six people, so they had plenty of room to spread out; Harry pressed against one window in the back, him against the other. The red-haired man, this Arthur, drove, while Shacklebolt kept watch out the window.

The whole story had been shared back at the house. They would come get the bodies later, clean up the whole house and take off the spells. They said they would find out what to do with him; he just had to wait and see.

At least the views changed faster now.

"Dudley, would you like something to eat?" Mr. Weasley asked gently, breaking the silence. "I think I have some chocolate in the glove department."

"Will it make my tongue explode?"

He had meant it as a joke, or at least half of one. But the temperature in the car must have dropped thirty degrees. The man's hands clutched the wheel, knuckles white. Harry had abandoned the window to glare at him, jaw clenched.

"Hey, Arthur," said Shacklebolt, in tones as delicate as the ones that had just been used on Dudley. "You've been driving for a while. Let's pull over and switch, stretch our legs and get some fresh air."

They had been driving for barely an hour.

This always happened to him. Sometimes he wondered if maybe he just wasn't that smart. Not even in a "not good with books" way, but in a genuinely not intelligent way. Or maybe he was just a lot better at being mean than he was at being nice. Cruel phrases just fit together too easily, whereas compliments had to be pulled out word by word. He and Harry stayed in the car while the red-haired man paced outside, clenched fist held to his mouth. He looked like he was holding back tears.

"I just didn't want any chocolate." His tone was only a bit defensive.

Harry snorted. "Yeah, well, don't bring it up again."

Shacklebolt slid into the driver's, while Mr. Weasley clambered into the passengers, eyes dry but overly wide. He popped open a compartment, and lo and behold, it actually did have chocolate in it. He snapped off a piece for himself, chewing slowly, before silently offering it to the cousins. Harry declined. Mr. Weasley turned to Dudley.

"Sorry," said Dudley.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat and pasted on a smile. "Nothing you did."

The group continued on into the night, the tone much the same as before, except for the sideways glances Harry kept throwing across the back seat.

-/-

-/-

The house was crooked and cobbled; rooms stuck out at strange angles, like they were about to fall off. Dudley recalled when Dad had once considered adding an addition to their house - there had been months with contractors, architects, carefully laid out blueprints, all manners of business before Dad threw up his hands and chased them all out, shouting about how they weren't getting a dime from him. These people didn't seem to have as much organization when it came to designing new parts of their home – instead they just seemed to copy and paste an array of different houses onto theirs.

A sign above the door read "The Burrow". It brought the thought of rodents to mind, but he managed to bite back his tongue. If one could cry when you insult his candy, Lord knows what would happen if you slighted their house.

"Arthur, Harry, I've got to get back to the Ministry, but you can owl me if there are any problems," said Shacklebolt. Right, owl mail. "Poppy should be here soon to check him out; please tell her I said hello." Shacklebolt held out a hand to him.

"Goodbye, Dudley. I'll be back tomorrow, once I have looked into a few things. We'll get you situated, help you deal with your-", he searched for a word, "-new circumstances. This is all going to be okay. The Weasleys and Harry are here for you now. They'll do everything they can for you."

Dad always hated people who had to beg for handouts.

"Thank you, Mr. Shacklebolt."

The large man walked back to the edge of the lawn and vanished on the spot with a small snap. Harry and Mr. Weasley waved their wands and said some funny words, and his bags floated out of the trunk and followed them to the door.

Dudley had grown up in a house with only two children, one of whom was barely allowed to talk, much less make noise. Smeltings hadn't been strict about much, but shouting in the halls was one of their sticking points. His boxing coach had advocated quiet in the gym to help guys get into the right mindset. And he had just been the only person alive in a house for almost two months.

But apparently all that quiet was behind him as he stepped into the bright, crowded, busy, _loud_ Weasley home.

**Employers Debate Length of Bereavement Leave, Try to Remain Sympathetic**

Far too many families lost members during the incident at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry last month, and in the violence leading up to the decisive battle. But how long should employers allow for families to grieve before they can expect their people back at work, going about their jobs and occupations like the rest of us? Government officials and small business owners alike find themselves wanting to return to business as usual, but being held up by employees who are not ready to move on from their recent losses. Rebuilding efforts in Diagon Alley have been generally slow, as many still want to stay home with their loved ones, while others may not trust the newly cleared and patrolled streets. Employers must tread a fine line between sympathy for the bereaved, and a desire to return to normalcy.

What are your views on issues of bereavement leave? Write to the Daily Prophet, Opinions and Editorials Section, to make your views known.


	4. Chapter 4

Ch 4

The house, this "Burrow", was one of the most recklessly busy places he had ever been. Redheads seemed packed into every corner, talking, laughing, and playing card games. Two owls perched on stands in the living room, while a tiny third one darted over everyone's heads. An older woman held a baby in her lap by the fireplace, which would have been a fairly normal sight, had the baby not had bright purple hair. A gorgeous blonde woman was curled up next to one of the gingers, one whose face was weirdly marked up and scarred. Tucked into the corner, a quiet man with glasses sat reading a book, as if trying to mark out one peaceful part of the room, no matter how little his efforts held back to general chaos.

And it wasn't just people moving around the room. Across the walls, framed pictures strung up with black ribbons smiled out at the crowd, gesturing and waving in ways that pictures really shouldn't. The largest one was hung close to the door, a color photograph of a young man with red hair. Dudley got the feeling he had seen him before, but couldn't quite distinguish him from all the other redheads here.

"Arthur, Harry, oh my goodness, I just got the news!"

A round, red-haired woman came running out of the kitchen, weaving around all of the others to get to them, effectively drawing all attention to the doorway. A woman with brownish hair and what looked like a medical bag (or what could have been used to conjure rabbits for all he knew) followed her closely. The ginger woman drew Harry into a tight hug.

"Oh Harry, I am so sorry, are you doing okay? That must have been a terrible shock, I can't imagine going in and finding – " She cut off as she pulled away from Harry – who had been feeling thoroughly uncomfortable and was glad she had let go – to look at Dudley.

"And you, dear, Merlin, this must be a difficult time. My name is Molly, and we're all going to be here for you, anything you need. Come in, come in, I can get you something to eat, just through here to the kitchen."

"No thank you, ma'am, I've already had dinner."

"You have? Oh, well, come in anyway, it'll be a good spot for Poppy to look you over, see how you're doing. And to discuss your, um, new issues."

Was no one here going to actually say it out loud? This could get old fast.

-/-

-/-

"Alright, looks like that rib was broken, but it has already started to heal crooked. Hold still for a moment, this is going to sting."

Sting was a definite understatement. There was a loud crack as the bone re-snapped and moved itself into a better position. He could see it moving underneath the skin and scar tissue, which was already red and raw from where the witch had cleaned it. She had said he did a good job of keeping it clean and stable, but a lot of her work seemed to be breaking him open again. Harry and the Weasley parents hung at the corners of the kitchen, watching as she patched up his side.

"Okay, I believe that is as much as I can do right now. You will need some bed rest, a bit more food. This has taken a serious toll on your body, you are almost skin and bones as it is." Harry snorted.

The witch set down her wand and brought her hands together carefully.

"And there is the matter of infection."

"I thought you got everything clean."

"Oh, yes, the wound is entirely sterile, that is no issue. But I must ask you: on the last full moon, did you…change at all?"

It had honestly taken them this long to ask?

"Yeah, I turned into a werewolf. Got all furry and stuff, with claws and big teeth. What's the big deal?"

Pomfrey blinked a few times.

"Big deal?"

"You guys just wave your wands, and I'm back to normal, right...Right?"

**Apothecary Promises Peaceful Rest to St. Mungo's Patients**

The Bobbin and Beteleguese Apothecary, a branch of the larger Bobbin Supplies Incorporated, has offered a generous donation of over three hundred doses of Dreamless Sleep potion to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries to use as the hospital sees fit for the treatment of patients. A spokesperson for Bobbin's said that: "We at Bobbin and Beteleguese know that many need help recovering in these troubling times. What is more basic and necessary in this process than a period of rest and relaxation? What is more conducive to healing then a peaceful night?" The hospital, stretched almost to capacity these days, offered its official thanks to the apothecary, as well as the plea that all those who are able donate to St. Mungo's or their local Healers Guild.


	5. Chapter 5

Ch 5

All his basic needs had been met.

Mrs. Weasley had made it clear that the kitchen was always open to him, day or night. He had a place to sleep and a clean bed, sharing a room with the book-reading man, who went by Percy. The house was full of wizards and witches, tough ones who had apparently just survived a war and were more than capable of keeping a house safe. Percy had even let him bum a smoke. He had everything he needed - at least in the short term.

Which meant his sleeping mind could move onto the meatier issues.

"NOOOOOOO!"

The wolf dragged Mum down the stairs by the ankle, teeth digging into her flesh, tearing stockings and flesh as it tugged. Her hands clawed at each step, but she couldn't get a good grip.

"VERNON! HELP ME!"

She could scream all she liked, but the throat-less mess that used to be her husband couldn't offer much assistance now.

"DUDLEY! DUDLEY!"

He wanted to help her. He really did. But his eyes were locked on the beast that was backing him into a corner, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't look away. Its teeth were bared in a canine grin, licking its lips and savoring the young man's indecision. He could try to run past it to save the woman, or stay here frozen in fear. Either way it would end the same, but the choice was killing him.

Dedalus was sprawled on the kitchen floor, chest open and exposed. He had blasted off one of their legs the moment they charged into the house, but he hadn't stood much chance after the first round. The scrawniest wolf ate desperately from his body, leaving the still-living meat to the stronger ones. Like the one that had taken out the big man.

Not too many people would try to punch a werewolf. But whatever one could say about Vernon Dursley, no one could deny that he cared about his wife and son. If anything, the sheer shock of the punch kept Dursley alive for a few extra moments, before the wolf recovered from his surprise and his blood thirst regained control. Dursley was left gasping through a neck that could no longer support him.

Petunia shrieked again, a desperate sound that tore out of her small form.

"SOMEBODY HELP!"

That was too much for Dudley, who leaped past the wolf guarding him to save his mother, to stop the beast from toying with her, gnawing on her kicking leg without going in for the kill.

He got one step before the monster lunged. Bones cracked beneath thick jaws, blood spurted out, and he fell to the floor as his world was taken over by teeth and fur and hot, heavy breath.

It took forever. Out of the corner of his mind, he noticed that Mum had stopped screaming.

He wasn't able to hear it, the gurgled words from across the room. All he saw was the green light that pierced through his eyelids and all he felt was the weight fall off his chest. He lay still, taking shallow breaths and feeling how much the wound burned.

Hestia Jones' wand slipped out of her bloody fingers with her last, unforgivable, spell. The remaining wolves gathered to aid her opponent, ignoring their dead comrade and the boy it had killed. She was dead in seconds.

And they had left. They didn't steal anything, didn't hang around to finish any larger plot, didn't even bother to look for survivors. They had killed. And killing felt good. There was nothing more to kill, so their job was done.

Jump forward a month, a full wane and wax of the moon, and he suddenly knew how good killing felt, knew how good it must feel, because why else would he want it so badly? There were people out there, people he could bite, could rip, could eat down to the bones, crack them open and lick away the marrow and leave nothing behind and he wanted it _so badly_.

There were people in the next room, not fresh people, no, just piles of flesh, but it would have to do, wouldn't it? He could rip them, gulp down, gorge until there was nothing left, and there it was, a woman's flesh, all tender on the bone from weeks in a hot house.

He ripped, and chewed and gnawed, and, for lack of a better word, wolfed it down until he could hold no more.

But he could always hold more, couldn't he? Greedy boy at the table, taking all the eggs and bacon, shoveling it in, while the one with glasses cooked. Two bedrooms, didn't he have, and the other boy, the boy that could have been like a brother, didn't he just have a cupboard? A cupboard and a scar and a fat boy's fists?

Cold, invisible, hands pulled him closer, and he heard it, heard it all. All the insults, all the threats, every time someone told him that no one could love a freak like him. He heard a rattling breath, felt a strange suction, and looked up through broken glasses while a red faced man yelled at him.

"YOU WILL GO BACK TO YOUR CUPBOARD AND STAY THERE UNTIL YOU CAN BE NORMAL!"

He wanted to be normal, he tried to be, but no one seemed to let him, and he wanted to be left alone, away from the loud man and the shrill woman and the cackling, grinning, taunting, horrible, cruel boy with the pink face and the thick hands, and oh god he wanted to die, but he couldn't, not until he finished eating.

Green light flashed and a cold mist covered him as he looked through glasses and black bangs and past a hairy snout at the bodies on the ground. Why wouldn't she wake up? He wanted something, so she should wake up and give it to him, who did she think he was, Harry? And the screaming and the yelling and the overwhelming silence all mixed together until it was too much, too much growling and shrieking, and too many people asking for help, or not asking for help, and a tight voice saying "Go—cupboard—stay—no meals." And he was drowning in the mist, falling past bloody carpets and broken dishes, falling until he hit the floor of Percy Weasley's bedroom.

**Amnesty: What can be Forgiven in Times of War?**

As the Ministry regains some of its former honour and dignity, not to mention its integrity, the question of amnesty becomes a hotbed issue. Clearly a person should not be blamed for breaking laws enacted during the Death Eaters' time in power, as they were clearly unjust and corrupt laws. But what about those who broke pre-existing Ministry laws during that period, often for the sake of the fight against evil? Should they be punished as well? Where should the line be drawn in terms of necessary departures from the law? Or does a rebel, by choosing to commit their crime, accept all consequences for their actions, for good or bad? These are among the questions that our Ministry officials are working so diligently to answer.


	6. Chapter 6

Ch 6

After several hours of fitful sleep, Dudley woke up to the sharp smell of cigarette smoke. It took a moment for him to come to and realize that, rather than the third floor lavatory at Smeltings, he was in a neat and meticulous bedroom. The thin man sitting at the window took another drag.

"I do not want you to think that I am some sort of addict," he said as he exhaled. "I smoke three cigarettes a day, no more, no less. It is simply a part of my daily routine."

He didn't bother to answer; instead he just walked over and took one from the offered pack (and another for later).

"Please tell me that you have smoked before and I have not corrupted you."

Dudley nodded.

"And it should go without saying that I would rather my parents not hear about this."

Another nod. It was way too early, after way too rough a night, to want to mess with this nerd. He looked around for where he had placed his lighter the previous night.

"Let me get that for you."

Percy pulled out his wand and tapped the end of Dudley's cigarette, which sparked into life. Dudley rather wished he had waited until it was out of his mouth, but hey, a light's a light. He eyed the piece of wood.

"Thought you weren't supposed to do that stuff in front of normal people."

"Did not your protectors use magic in front of you?"

God, the way this guy talked. _Did not your protectors_? Really?

"Only the big stuff, to keep us safe." Which had done a bang up job. "And even that was supposed to be against the rules. Not little stuff like using that thing for a smoke. What, is a lighter too complicated for you?"

Percy put away his wand with a little smirk.

"We do develop a certain attachment to them. As to your question, no, it is no longer an issue. The Wizengamont Decree of 1857 first declared all lycanthropes part of the magical community, regardless of their magical abilities beforehand, and the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans standardized those rules later. It was reasoned that it would be better for Muggle werewolves to be fully aware of their situation and all of the options available to them, rather than let them stumble through it on their own, perhaps thinking themselves mad. If you choose to be, you may be a full-time member of the magical community."

If you choose to be. Huh. Percy was smiling a bit, like this was the clear up-side to a bad situation.

"Or I could just go home? Be normal all the rest of my life?"

Percy's face fell a bit.

"Well, that option is certainly open to you. Although there are a few steps that need to be taken, mostly formalities. You will need to present yourself to the Werewolf Registration Office in the Ministry of Magic. It is just a way to keep track of the spread of lycanthropy, to trace patterns and take extra precautions. And the Ministry requires that Muggle werewolves transform in Ministry-regulated locations during the full moon, to ensure public safety and prevent further incidents."

"But the rest of the time I'd be fine?"

"Yes. Lycanthropy need not take over your life entirely. You can still go on to be a lawyer or an accountant," he grasped to come up with another normal job, "or a doctor. There is nothing holding you back at all."

He gave what was clearly supposed to be a supportive smile, but came across as more of a condescending smirk. Yeah, thought Dudley, you get your parents killed and your side slashed open by a monster. See how normal your life stays.

Of course, considering who his cousin was, apparently normal wasn't much of an option.

There was a soft knock on the door. Mrs. Weasley spoke gently but clearly from the other side.

"Percy, Dudley, breakfast is ready. Dudley, if you want to sleep in, I can bring something up."

Percy drew his wand and started clearing the smoke.

"Be right down, Mother."

He pulled a small ash tray out of his desk and stamped out the butt, then offered it to Dudley.

"Noticed you have normal smokes," said Dudley. "You even have my brand. What, no pipe with rings of purple smoke?"

Percy smiled; a genuine smile this time, not one crafted for a certain effect.

"I was raised as a wizard from birth. I respect and love my culture and the world it has built. I would not trade my magic for anything in the world. But I can say without a trace of doubt that magic-grown tobacco tastes like shit. Some things just should not be messed with."

**Foreign Efforts: Too Little Too Late?**

During this delicate reconstruction period, many have been glad to see the outpouring of support from various magical communities abroad, be it political, monetary, or humanitarian. But many question the usefulness of relief efforts that did not begin until after the demise of You-Know-Who. "Bunch of cowards, weren't they?" said one man at the Ministry, who asked to remain anonymous. "They were all afraid he'd come after them next, that they'd get some of the hurt. But now they he's gone, everybody's friends now, and oh, of course they were always with us in spirit." The man proceeded to spit on the ground to further illustrate his point. While others may not be as vocal as this man, there is a general distrust of those who chose not to join the fight for good until later. Perhaps too late.


	7. Chapter 7

Ch 7

There was food. There was lots and lots of food. A full plate of eggs cycled around, replenishing itself every now and then from the apparently self-frying pan on the stove. A huge stack of toast sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by butter, jam, marmalade, and some things he didn't even recognize. The smell of bacon drifted out from under a covered tray. Jugs of juice, milk, and coffee; bowls of sugar and cream; a serving dish of cut fruit: everything that he could have imagined in a breakfast was on this table. Yesterday's chili seemed paltry and sad, despite being a true gift at that time.

This had to be some sort of special occasion. There was simply too much food for the number of people around the table. (His mind skipped over all the times a spread like this had been set for basically just him and his father. That was a whole different world now.)

The full crowd from last night wasn't even here. Pomfrey had left after working on him, and apparently not everyone lived here; the blonde woman and her scarred husband had left early, and the woman with the baby had departed after much hugging and a few tears. It was just the Weasley couple, their other five children, Harry, and him. Sitting down to a feast.

Take it slowly, he told himself, don't eat it all at once; try to save some for later. He would snag some food off the plates when dinner was over; store it in some hidden spot in his room to make sure he had enough to eat. So he wedged himself into a seat between two of the redheads, loaded his plate, and resisted the urge to start bolting down the food, pausing every now and then to pocket toast.

While he ate, he listened to snatches of the conversations around him, so many voices climbing over each other for dominance. Harry and the red-haired girl (he thought her name might be Jenny, he had heard it in passing) were whispering something at the other end of the table. A tall, lanky guy was gobbling down eggs while talking to a man with a burn mark on his arm. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley chatted while she kept the food moving around.

The man just across from him was the mirror image of the guy in the picture last night, except he was missing an ear; he told jokes to whoever would listen long enough to laugh. Last night, Dudley had been able to place a memory to the picture – they were the twins who had given him magical candy. But since even the mention of it sent their father off the deep end, it was probably not something to be brought up. Picture frames with black cloth rarely spoke of good stories.

The only person who seemed to be tight-lipped was Percy, who kept his eyes on his plate, eating steadily. Apparently he was only chatty as a smoker. His tightly pressed clothes seemed out of place among all the messed hair and pajamas.

The conversations paused when something started tapping against the kitchen window - a large barn owl with a piece of paper tied to its leg. Percy was up and out of his seat before the others even realized and he tore open the official-looking wax seal with great energy. His eyes skimmed over it quickly before he quietly passed it over to Dudley.

It was from Shacklebolt. Lots of niceties about how everything would be okay and that he would lead the search for those who had killed his parents. Apologies for not being able to come over, due to work. Instructions to stay put with the Weasleys for a bit longer. And an official summons from the Beast Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, instructing him to report to their offices the next day.

Well, at least he'd be well fed when he went.

**Call for Bureaucrats and Assistants at Ministry**

Do you have the skills needed to be a clerical assistant or scribe? Are you quick with a quill and fast to learn? Then there are plenty of jobs available to you at the Ministry of Magic, which has put out a request for applicants to help in the reorganization and re-evaluation of the Ministry itself. Potential positions include court scribes, secretaries, office managers, and all manner of maintenance occupations. Those who lost jobs during the war may look to this as a fresh start and a chance to have an input in the vital reconstruction of the government and bureaucracy of this great nation.


	8. Chapter 8

Ch 8

He looked up at the sign on the door before him: Werewolf Registry. They had walked through the entire Beast Division to get here; past offices that would echo with screeches and roars. There had been a woman in one cubicle honestly talking about dragons. What next, fairies?

The door had a large "Do Not Disturb" sign on it, so he and Percy had settled into the makeshift waiting room, next to a very thin woman with brown hair cropped close to her head. She wore a loose set of grey robes, but he thought he saw jeans peeking out of the bottom. She looked to be around her twenties. Her arms were folded in front of her, obscuring the small silver badge on her chest. Dudley wanted to cover his as well, but at this point it would look like he was copying her. So he sat quietly, waiting.

Percy, however, did not seem to be in the habit of killing time. He opened his bag and pulled out several pieces of paper, all of which rustled loudly. The woman cocked an eyebrow at him, not quite a glare, but certainly not inviting him to make more noise. Percy did not notice; instead he continued to shuffle around in his bag, now searching for a quill. The woman's eyes travelled to Dudley and over the badge pinned to his jumper.

"Dudley Dursley, Werewolf/Muggle"

It was strange having it put so bluntly, right out there for anyone to see.

"You're new here."

It wasn't a question, the way she said it, but he nodded anyway.

"And a Muggle."

He nodded again. Percy tuned into the one-sided conversation and leaned around him to address the woman.

"Yes, my friend here has just recently come into his condition. Are you waiting to speak to a representative from the Registry as well?"

Both her eyebrows were up now, as if she couldn't quite believe the man sitting before her. Her mouth twisted a bit, clearly holding back a few comments.

"Yes, I am here for the Registry," she said, quiet emphasis on each word. "But I am here under protest, and I will be out of this rat warren as soon as possible."

Percy didn't have a response for that. Dudley saw him glance at his papers, as if he wanted to go back in time and stop himself from starting this conversation. But he decided to soldier on, mostly by completely ignoring her last statement.

"Fascinating. Tell me, do you have any advice for my friend here, as a newcomer to this whole … process?"

She let out a bark of a laugh and shifted in her seat, arms still crossed. She looked straight at Dudley.

"Advice? Learn Russian."

Before either of the men could begin to work through that answer, the door opened and an old man with a large sheet of parchment walked out.

"Mr. Dursley?"

Dudley stood, followed closely by Percy.

"Come with me, please."

The man started to retreat back into the office, but stopped as he noticed the woman. Both narrowed their eyes as their gaze met, although the man was better at hiding it.

"Miss Penn. Good to see you again."

"Wish I could say the same thing. Could you tell Tennsley I'm here?"

"Of course. I'm sure he doesn't mean to keep you waiting."

Both pasted on a weak attempt at a smile. The man turned his attention back to Dudley and ushered him into the office, closing the door behind them with a heavy and solid clunk.

-/-

-/-

**Basic Werewolf Registry Form, 1.07**

To Be Completed by Interviewer

Date Conducted: Friday, June 5th, 1998

I. Biographical Information

1. Name

Dudley Daniel Dursley

2. Date of Birth

June 23, 1980

3. Parents' Names

Mother: Petunia Jennifer Dursley (nee Evans) (deceased)

Father: Vernon Sebastian Dursley (deceased)

4. Magical Status

Muggle

(Interviewer's Note: The subject was raised in a household with a wizarding cousin (Harry James Potter) and has been aware of the magical community since age eleven. The subject required no further explanations about the existence of wizards, although he did seem unclear on the nature of werewolves.)

5. Current Address

4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey

(IN: The subject has taken up temporary residence in the wizarding home of the Weasley family with his cousin, in Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon. A representative from the family, Percy Ignatius Weasley, accompanied him to the interview.)

6. Occupation

Unemployed

II. Incident of Contamination

1. Date of Contamination

April 11, 1998

(IN: The subject was unsure on the exact date of contamination, but a consultation with the lunar calendar gave the answer.)

2. Manner of Contamination

The subject and subject's parents were vacationing in the country when they were attacked by five transformed werewolves. The werewolves killed the subject's parents and bit the subject on the side, contaminating him. The subject did not learn the identity of the werewolves in question.

(IN: The subject seemed hesitant to discuss the incident. The interviewer believes this requires further investigation.)

3. Status of Contamination

Complete. Full transformation takes place during the full moon.

III. Condition Management

1. Planned Site for Transformation

Ministry-Regulated Werewolf Transformation Center

2. Marital Status

Single

2a. Does the spouse feel threatened by the subject?

N/A

2b. Does the subject pose an imminent threat to the spouse?

N/A

3. Children

None.

3a. Do the children feel threatened by the subject?

N/A

3b. Does the subject pose an imminent threat to the children?

N/A

4. Does the subject's occupation put them in close contact with children, the elderly, or those otherwise vulnerable?

N/A. The subject is unemployed.

5. Does the subject have any contact or affiliation with werewolf groups that have been deemed dangerous by the Ministry of Magic?

No.

(IN: The subject had apparently never heard of Fenrir Greyback.)

IV. Questions for the Interviewer

1. Does the subject seem adjusted to the idea of contamination?

As the contamination took place almost two months prior to this interview, the idea has had some time to sink it. Being raised in a semi-magical household certainly made the transition easier, as the idea of magic was not entirely foreign. The subject seemed reticent regarding his actual contamination, but that may be related to the deaths of the parents.

2. Does the subject appear willing to comply with Ministry of Magic rules pertaining to werewolves?

The subject was quiet and almost non-responsive when questioned about his plans for the future. The subject may take time to adjust to Ministry laws, but did not seem outwardly defiant.

3. Final Notes

This subject does not seem like he will be much trouble. Despite his familial connection to Harry Potter, he does not appear to be remarkable in any aspects. He will most likely do as he is instructed and not raise too much trouble along the way. A low risk subject.

**Ministry Begins Inquiry into Use of Memory Charms**

The Ministry has begun to field questions concerning the use of Memory Charms during the conflicts of the last year, as well as the treatment of those who had events erased from their minds. "The Ministry never made official use of Memory Charms on wizards or witches," said a representative at a press conference. "But that is not to say that some unauthorized mind-erasing did not take place. We are working our hardest to determine who has been victimized in such a way, and how they may be helped to recover their memories." Memory Charms have long been a staple of Muggle interactions and a great tool in keeping the magical world secret, but use of the spell on wizards has been closely monitored and legislated, and largely used for therapeutic purposes. It is the common opinion that a person's thoughts and memories are their own property, and that attempts to keep important information from a person is a violation of their rights. More news is sure to come concerning the help given to possible Memory Charm victims.


	9. Chapter 9

Ch 9

Life at the Burrow took on a definite pattern, even in the few days he was there. Get up. Listen to Percy babble over their shared morning fags. Go down to the table full of food. Listen to Mrs. Weasley trying to be nice, and everyone else trying to be civil. Try not to think about the calendar, and what was coming. Watch his cousin talk with Ron and Ginny. Avoid accidently bringing up their dead son/brother/friend. The usual. Then he'd usually go back up to Percy's room and pull out his weights; this house was full of food, and he wasn't going to be the one to find out what size they stopped making robes at. He'd have lunch, maybe wander around the house and yard a bit, have dinner, go up to his room early, and nod his way through Percy's before-bed-cigarette-ramble. Honestly, if it wasn't for the presence of fresh food, it wouldn't have been that different from the safe house. Although the Weasleys were more interactive than the broken chairs had been (and he had only talked to those once or twice).

So it was strange to break the routine, even after only three days. But a thought had popped into his head over breakfast, and it seemed like the sort of thing not to let pass or forget about.

"Has anyone told people that my parents are dead?"

That killed the conversations pretty fast.

"Like my Dad's job? Or the bank? Or has anyone told my aunt?"

Across the table, forks were slowly lowered to plates.

Three hours, several owls sent back and forth with Kingsley, one whispered argument between Harry and Mrs. Weasley, and one gas station later, Dudley, Harry and Mr. Weasley were driving their way to the country to deliver news to one Miss Marjorie Dursley.

Aunt Marge's house was a nice little cottage, but instead of flowers and other typical garden ornaments, the fenced-in yard was full of tie-outs and dog toys. A kennel by the front door housed a mother bulldog curled up with five little wriggling puppies. She raised her head to stare at the approaching car, considered barking, then decided against it and put her head back down. Inside the borrowed car, Mr. Weasley turned to the cousins.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come in with you? I know how difficult visits like this can be." His hands tightened a bit, but his gaze was steady on Dudley.

He wanted to say yes. His parents had always been the ones who talked to Aunt Marge, all he had ever done was sit back and let her be nice to him. And Harry's lips were pressed tightly together at the sight of the house, so he probably wasn't going to be the big talker inside. He wanted to let Mr. Weasley go in and have a neat and polite conversation, while he sat in the car and waited for it to be over.

But no. He had decided not to send her a letter or give her a phone call, and since he was here already, there was no use doing it half way. Not to mention that the last thing Aunt Marge probably wanted was some skinny guy in robes in her living room, telling her that her brother was dead. No, that was a job for nephews.

The car doors thunked shut behind Harry and Dudley and the mother bulldog raised her head again. She growled at the young men walking down the garden path to the door, the big one staring straight ahead and the skinny one with his hands in his pockets, watching the ground. These were not the kind of people she wanted around her puppies.

The door opened on the fourth knock, and there was Aunt Marge, larger than ever, taking up the doorway with her bulk and her cane. She was looking behind herself, kicking at barking dogs that tried to edge past her and out the doorway.

"Back, Sabre, get back! Cudgel, shoo, you go back to your crate!"

It wasn't until she had knocked enough of them back that she turned to look at her visitors. Her little, deep-set eyes blinked a few times before she threw up her arms and yelled with joy.

"Duddey! Now there's my little nephew, here to see his Aunt Margie! Didn't expect to see you, come give me a hug!"

Dudley leaned into the embrace and tried to return it; he didn't remember her being quite so big. Maybe it was just that he had less to compare with it these days. She squeezed him tight, then not-quite-whispered in his ear.

"Why's the boy here?"

"Nice to see you too, Aunt Marge," said Harry.

Dudley was led into the house, stepping around the dogs and trying to hear over the barking. Harry followed close behind them. Marge kept up a boisterous litany as they walked.

"Now tell me, how was that vacation you lot took? Vernon didn't go into the details much, but it did sound exotic. Did you bring back a souvenir for your auntie?"

"Uh, I-"

"And I do want to hear how Petunia is doing, she looked just a bit peaky last I saw her, of course maybe it was just the stress of having _him_ back in the house for the summer." She shot another glare at Harry over the pudgy arm she placed around Dudley's shoulder. "That'd be enough to put anyone off their health. Musket, off the couch!"

She shoved the offending dog off the upholstery and led him to sit down. Harry leaned against a striped beige and tan wall, arms crossed.

"Now, I know just why you're here, young man, don't think you can pull one on me. Just couldn't wait for your birthday present, of course, and why should you, eighteen is a very important year. Good for you I already have it purchased and wrapped, let me just get that for you."

She waddled out of the room, taking care to bump into Harry on her way. He just shook his head as she left, like he found her more funny than anything else. Of course, Dudley supposed, after a war, a mean aunt had to seem small and silly. Or an uncle. Or a cousin.

"Here you go, the best I could find for my little nephew." She plopped the large shiny box into his lap and sat in an armchair opposite him to best watch as he opened it.

"Actually, Aunt Marge, we're here for-"

"Oh don't leave me waiting, I want to see how you like it! Open it up, Dudley."

She didn't seem like she would move on from that point. He pulled open the bright silver paper and looked at the brand new-

"Boxing gloves! Best brand, the man at the store said, although he did have sort of a shifty look about him. If there's something better, I can go get you another pair. You can have these for practice and a better pair for matches. Don't want to step into the ring without the very best on your fists."

The red leather was smooth and strong and the laces were brand new and ready. They were pretty expensive, top of the line quality. It was exactly the type of gift his parents would have gotten him.

"Aunt Marge, my mum and dad are dead."

She was still talking about the gloves, about boxing, about how she was sure he'd win State again this year, but she was listening. Each word came slower and slower, like a car coming to a gradual stop, until it finally hit.

"What did you say, Duddeypoo?"

"My mum and dad. They're dead. They were – " his eyes met with Harry's, who nodded, prodding him to go on with the story. "They were attacked while we were on vacation… Stray dogs in Italy."

Marge's hand unconsciously drifted down to pat one of her dogs, the one she had called Musket. The dog rubbed its face against her hand.

"So, uh, I came back, and I'm staying with Harry and some friends of his. But, well, we thought we should come and tell you. About them."

She blinked once. Twice. She patted the dog again.

"Yeah. And, um, there'll be a funeral soon. Just gotta get that all figured out. We'll tell you when."

She gripped her cane a little tighter.

"Well… Is there anything we can do for you?"

Slowly, slowly, Marge Dursley raised herself out of the armchair. She looked at her dogs, at Dudley, at the pair of boxing gloves. Then she whacked Harry across the shins with her cane.

"What the –!"

"Have the decency to look sad," she said in a choked voice, as if she had a heavy cold. "Vernon and Petunia took you in and raised you. Your cousin just lost his parents. Look like you give a damn, boy."

She looked back to Dudley, with much softer eyes.

"Dudley, I just need… I need to go feed the dogs. I'll be back shortly. Feel free to have anything from the kitchen."

She shuffled out of the room, making sure to bump into Harry on her way. Harry and Dudley pretended not to notice when she passed the dog's food and went straight into her bedroom.

They also pretended to not hear the crying once the door closed.

**Orphanage Endeavors to Reconnect Families**

The Magvyre Wizarding Orphanage has stepped up its recent efforts to reunite children with their parents, many of whom were separated during the war, and to raise awareness to the orphan problem in Britain at the moment. Many children were left parentless due to Death Eater attacks, whereas others were given up by parents who thought that their children would have a better chance without them. "We saw a lot of it, this last year," said Mildred Magvyre, the orphanage headmistress. "Muggle-born parents would anonymously drop off little ones, thinking that if the child's heritage was unknown, they would be better cared for then if there was a confirmed link to Muggle grandparents. We understand that these people often had the best of intentions. But now, it seems best for everyone that these parents come back and claim their children. So many of these children just need homes and people who love them, somewhere to be rooted. As for those whose parents have passed away, we encourage everyone to consider adopting a war orphan. Their parents made the ultimate sacrifice, and this is the least we can do to honor their memories." Magvyre Wizarding Orphanage holds weekly open houses, and encourages everyone to come and find that special little child to make their family complete.


	10. Chapter 10

Ch 10

"I am sorry for your loss, you know."

They hadn't spoken the entire car ride. Mr. Weasley had asked a few questions, but the trip had descended back into silence quickly. It was only now, back in the Burrow, that Harry broke the ice that had reigned since they said goodbye to Aunt Marge. He had followed Dudley up to Percy's room, where they sat opposite each other on the two beds. The boxing gloves lay on the floor.

"I mean it. I am really sorry about what happened to you."

"Wasn't your fault."

"…You three wouldn't have been attacked if you weren't related to me."

"Still doesn't make it your fault. You didn't bite me. You didn't kill them."

He wanted him to leave. He wanted to do a bit more lifting today, as he seemed to be growing increasingly tired, unable to stay up and do his full workout. It would be better than sitting around and talking. At least Percy only talked about stupid stuff.

Harry looked down at the ground, studying the old carpet. The words came slower now.

"…I don't know if I can say I miss them."

Dudley wondered how well the boxing gloves would fit. Did the Weasleys have a punching bag anywhere?

"So many people have died. Fred and Tonks and Lupin and Dobby and Sirius. Even Hedwig, do you remember her? My owl? And I know I should be sad about your parents, and I am, but it feels like I … I just don't have enough room. I already miss too many people. Can you understand that?"

He hoped when he got back to Smeltings that the coach would let him back on the team. Yeah, he'd been off for a year, but he'd worked out, and he really wanted to try out these gloves.

Or were werewolves not allowed on school boxing teams?

That was what did it: the thought of boxing werewolves. Big hulking furry beasts with hand wrappings and leather gloves, beating up hanging bags and trying to not rip them with their claws. He had driven across the country with a wizard, lied to his aunt in a house full of dogs, driven back to stay in another wizard's bedroom, had a serious discussion with his war hero cousin, and wondered about the nature of werewolf boxing. And when compared to the last year, it was not too strange of a day.

He laughed. He bent over and laughed, clutching his side as the fresh scar tissue pulled. Harry watched him, seemed to consider putting a hand on his shoulder, but decided against it. And Dudley laughed.

His mother had hated dogs so damn much; the same way she had hated magic, so didn't it make sense, in a twisted sort of way, that she'd be killed by werewolves? And yes, his dad was gone, but his big ugly sister looked so much like him, that it was almost like having the old man still around, except in a dress. And they both hated Harry, but Harry had been the one to come save their fat son from starving to death. It was too funny for words. It was too damn funny.

He wasn't quite sure when it turned from laughing to crying, it happened so gradually. Wracking laughs and heaving sobs didn't feel that different. Harry did end up putting a hand on his shoulder; he even moved over to sit on the same bed. The young men sat together, one orphan trying to comfort the other. Dudley sobbed until he was empty, emptier than he had ever been.

-/-

-/-

Again, he woke up to cigarette smoke. Again, he wasn't in the Smeltings bathroom.

"My apologies, I did not mean to wake you. If you wish, Mother sent up a plate with a Warming Charm on it. It is right on the desk."

The room was dark, lit only by a small lamp on Percy's side. He vaguely remembered lying down after Harry left; he must have been pretty messed up to miss dinner. It was part of his routine.

"I have been meaning to talk to you about this upcoming Wednesday. You will undoubtedly need an escort to the Ministry-regulated transformation site, and I gladly offer my services if you so desire them. I understand if you wish to go with Harry or my father or someone else, but I simply wanted to make it known that I am available at that time."

"Don't you ever have work?"

Again, maybe he just wasn't that smart. Percy flushed pink and went back to his cigarette, looking out the window. Dudley pulled himself off the bed, avoiding the gloves on the floor, stepping around the weights, and picking his way over to the spotlessly clean half of the room. The plate of ham and potatoes looked great, but he really wanted a smoke first. And freshly-insulted people weren't likely to share their fags.

"Sorry. Just woke up, you know?"

Percy nodded and held out the pack. He drummed his fingers on the windowsill while Dudley lit up.

"I do have a job, just so you know. I work at the Ministry of Magic."

Dudley waited for the rest of the speech, but it seemed slower in coming than the rest of Percy's rambles. A few seconds passed in silence.

"I am simply in the middle of a … transitional period at the moment. Many departments are being reorganized, and they need clerical help where ever they can find it, a spare quill here and there, someone who knows their way around a desk. If anything, I am glad that I am getting exposure to so many different sections of the Ministry; the increased familiarity will aid me in the future, I know it. And once the proper reorganizations are finished, I am certain … very sure that I will have a more permanent position. I am not ungrateful, not by any means, it is simply … well, five departments in a month leaves one feeling a little … rootless."

"Wouldn't know. I haven't had a job."

"Well, yes, of course, you are still in school. But it does give one a certain drive, a reason, if you will. Even when other things … when it all seems to be going wrong, a solid occupation gives a person direction. Lets them know where they are going."

Percy blinked a few times. He tapped the ashes off of his cigarette and coughed.

"Of course, you should not let it take over your life either," he said quickly. "Friends, family, all that sort of thing, you cannot let those go. Then where would you be? Aside from a flat in London wondering where your life went and why –"

He stopped himself, again. In a rush, he drew in the last of his cigarette and stubbed out the butt.

"My apologies, just off in my own head for a moment. I will leave you to get on with your food. I think I will go to bed now, but feel free to leave the light on if you wish, I would not presume to police your schedule. And please consider my offer for Wednesday."

Wednesday. The mark of the two months. He wished he had brought the calendar from the safe house with him, something to cross the days down to the next appointment with the moon. But a piece of paper wouldn't make it arrive any faster or slower. Four more days, that was all.

The moon was already big and round outside the window. He wanted to spit at it. Life wouldn't have gone back to normal anyway, not without Mum and Dad, but he could have maybe let it go, forgotten about it in time. But not with that damn thing in the sky.

He couldn't spit at it, but he blew out his lungful of smoke, the only little bit of defiance he had. What he'd give for a punching bag.

**Rumors of Stray Dragon Continue**

Reports continue to come in concerning a stray, untracked dragon flying free across Britain, although they have yet to be substantiated by Ministry officials. Rumors claim that the dragon in question belonged to Gringotts Bank and escaped during a possible robbery, but the goblins have declined to comment on this possibility or on any potential break-ins. There have been other scattered reports of magical creatures running loose, which will hopefully lead to a greater emphasis on animal control in the course of the Ministry's reorganization.


	11. Chapter 11

Ch 11

The whole place made him feel antsy. The low, wide stone building before them was not exactly an inviting place, but it shouldn't have made him feel that nervous. Trees arched over the roof on either side, as if trying to draw it back into the forest. He and Percy stood in the line extending from the entrance, waiting as wizards at a desk in the front asked questions of each skinny, scarred, twitchy person there. The gradually setting sun sapped some of the heat out of the day as Dudley shifted where he stood, passing his weight back and forth between his feet.

"It's the anti-Muggle charms, just so you know," said a voice right behind him.

He spun around and found himself looking into the deep-set brown eyes of a bony face. It was the thin woman from the Registration Office, only this time there was no pretense of wizard-ness about her. She wore ripped jeans and a graying tank top, which did little to cover the many small scars on her shoulders and arms. She gestured to the building and continued.

"They want to keep Muggles away, so there are a bunch of spells and stuff. It doesn't affect us, obviously, but I know I still get the jitters. The feeling like I shouldn't be here. It gets better once you get inside, promise."

"Thanks," he mumbled. She drummed her fingers on her hips a few times, clearly wanting to say something more. He and Percy waited for her to continue.

"I'm actually glad I ran into you. Well, I knew I'd run into _you_, but both of you, you know?"

Percy peered at her over the top of his glasses.

"I just wanted to apologize for the other day at the Ministry. I was going in looking for a fight, and I got it, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you. 'Specially not on your first trip there. Hope it didn't turn out too bad."

"Nah. Nothing horrible."

She let out a long breath and gave a sort of half-smile.

"Good to hear. Better that your introduction goes smoothly. Let's hope it continues to be." She offered a thin, rough hand to him. "Audrey Penn."

"Dudley Dursley."

"Percy Weasley."

"Nice to meet you two. Welcome to the Lycanthrope Lunation Holding Facility," she said, spreading her arms wide to encapsulate it all. "Or, as we like to call it, the Cage."

-/-

-/-

Percy left him at the entrance, with a farewell and a promise to come get him in the morning. At Audrey's recommendation, Dudley handed him his watch and wallet before he vanished. Apparently there were small lockers inside for personal belongings, but she was sure that the guards checked them during the night. A long-bearded and thoroughly bored wizard took down his name and "blood-status" on a sheet of parchment; the questioning look Dudley gave him was enough to make the man check the "Muggle" box without another word.

He walked through the archway and found himself in a large hall dominated by a metal structure in the middle. From floor to ceiling stretched a wall of shimmering bars, closing off a square of space from the rest of the stone structure. The bars continued over the otherwise-open top of the structure, letting the weakening sunlight flow in. Open space surrounded the structure, these parts covered by ceilings; pathways full of wandering people and officials in crisp dark blue robes, all walking over cobblestone floors. It left the strange impression of a prison cell crammed inside a church.

Normal people and wizards mixed and mingled in the passageways, talking in lowered voices; many went quiet when officials walked by. Dudley caught bits and pieces of conversations as he walked past, not quite sure where to go.

"Sorry, haven't heard from her since August, I'll tell you if I hear anything."

"– Now, see, they've gotta be careful about stuff like that, it'll come back to bite them later, and –"

"Last I heard he was heading east, but that was from Rachel, might've just been wishful thinking. I'll keep an ear out for news."

Rough wooden benches lined the walls. He saw a couple of people playing cards or reading news papers, but the majority of those sitting were curled up in their robes, trying to sleep. He was reminded of a vagrant his dad had chased away from the house when he was little; he remembered how funny he thought it had been. One of the sleepers was sitting next to a child, a little girl no more than five, whose feet didn't reach the floor. There were kid werewolves? Werepuppies? Werecubs?

"So how do you like it so far?" Audrey had apparently finished arguing with the man at the entrance and followed him through the crowd. "I remember it was a bit overwhelming my first time. I was only about seventeen. You?"

"Eighteen in two weeks."

"Oh, congratulations. I'll bring a cake next month." He couldn't tell if she was joking. He watched as a man with a long braided beard and tiny glasses passed them; Audrey waved hello.

"I thought only normal people had to come here. Wizards do to?"

"Yowch, you better lose that one fast. It's wizards and Muggles, not wizards and normal people; they can get touchy about that. And hey, I don't blame them, who's to say what's normal. As for this place, yeah, it's mixed. Muggles have to come here regardless, but if wizards have another safe place to transform, they can opt out." Her eyes hardened as she looked at the ripped clothes and thin faces around her. "Which basically translates to wizards with enough money or influence can avoid being crammed together like animals. And then they wonder why so many people sided with Greyback. God, being back in this place." She shook her head in frustration. She started drifting her way over to a large group that was congregated in one of the corners; he followed her, because really, what else was he going to do?

"I thought you came every month."

"Used to. You know about the war, right?" He nodded quickly; between what Dedalus and Hestia had told him, and his time at the Burrow, he could piece most of it together. "Yeah, well everything kind of went to hell, especially for people like us. Coming here was basically admitting to being a Muggle, vulnerable, or both. Most wolves just ditched early on, reading the signs of where everything was going. About a year ago, when the Minister went down, I headed underground, traveling with some wizards, all keeping our heads down. I heard this place was used as a trap more than once. But suddenly, war's over, everything's just fine now, oh, and get back in the cage so we can make sure you're all here. Not Death Eaters anymore, but still not a good climate to be in."

They had reached the group; a tall man with a scrubby blonde beard looked over Dudley and smirked at Audrey.

"Not even moonrise and you're making a new guy into pack. Maybe not so heavy on the paranoia, hon." Audrey lightly punched him in the arm and the two shared a quick back-slapping embrace.

"Glad to see you're okay, Liam. Thought I heard some rumors about you sitting in a dungeon somewhere."

"You have good sources. Got out about two months ago. A Snatcher got drowsy on his watch, and we had a bit of a jailbreak. It would have been all dashing and heroic, if it hadn't led to two weeks wandering, lost and dirty, in the woods."

A woman on his other side, a brunette with graying hair, laughed.

"Should have headed east, seen if the gossip's true."

"Yeah, on foot, wandless, and dodging Snatchers and Death Eaters. That would have ended well."

Next to them, a middle-aged man and woman were having a somewhat heated debate.

"Just because it's not one of the big three doesn't mean it's not a perfectly good school," said the man.

"So I should give my daughter a sub-standard education? The name just doesn't carry the same weight as Hogwarts."

"And tell me, what's Hogwarts' death toll up to at the moment? Don't get me started on Durmstrang. And Marni's a very bright girl, but the day they let a loup garou into Beauxbatons is the day I eat my cauldron."

"You know I'll hold you to that."

"I mean it. Have her start learning Russian, right now. A summer of hard studying and she'll be proficient enough to start classes in September."

"We're not deciding anything right away. It's getting close to moon rise, I need to go find her."

The tone in the room was gradually changing as the sky got darker and darker. Conversations got even quieter and more sporadic, despite the room becoming more crowded. Even in the close quarters, everyone was hesitant to get any closer to the barred section.

Suddenly, torches sprung to life along all of the walls, making the clear transition into night.

Torches. These people couldn't even figure out light bulbs, and yet they wanted to be called normal.

The door in the stone archway closed with a heavy thud, drawing every eye. Several men and women in the dark blue robes cut through the crowd, leaving a large empty spot behind them. It was only when they got closer that he could see what had made the lowered patch.

Children. And not just the scattered child here and there, like the woman's daughter Marni, now held tightly in her mother's grasp, or the five year old on the bench, legs now held to her chest. This was a whole group, each one of them wearing a light blue set of robes with a red badge pinned to the front. Their faces were scrubbed clean and their hair precisely parted in the middle; they could have been accepted into Petunia Dursley's living room. But all the cleanliness and uniformity in the world could not make these children look well cared for.

Their large eyes scoured the room quickly, staring at any- and everyone. Hands twitched and grasped at the air, or tugged on their clothes, or clutched the hands of other children. Here a cheekbone with a dent in it, there a still-healing black eye, scars everywhere. Close to where Dudley stood was a young girl, maybe six or seven. Out of the collar of her shirt peeked an angry red web of rough marks, which continued up her neck and over her jaw line to decorate her small face. She clung to the hand of a girl next to her, a girl completely identical, except for her lack of scars. The twins' eyes passed over the crowd, but they did not seem to look directly at anything.

"Greyback's children," Audrey murmured softly somewhere behind Dudley's shoulder. "Pray for those kids. They still have a long road ahead."

The adults in the dark blue led the children into the barred area. Even in the greater expanse, they stuck together like one unit. The oldest ones, who looked to be in their teens, kept scanning over the group; a few mouths silently counted, shepherds with a tiny flock.

This was apparently the cue that the process had begun. Everyone began to file into the cage, wizard and normal person (no, Muggle) alike. Card games were left mid-hand, companions were nudged awake, and the officials drifted to the edges of the crowd, not exactly herding but certainly making the flow of traffic clear.

He made his way to the metal door, Audrey whispering commentary the entire way.

"Locks on the door, but they're designed to be opened by any human hand, at least from the inside. So while it's _suggested_ that you stay around in the morning, get some help from the Healers they bring, listen to any further announcements they have, you're perfectly within your rights to leave as soon as you transform back."

All useful information, of course, but he did wish that she would be quiet for a moment and let him deal with it on his own. A strange tingle washed over him as he walked through the door, as if he had stepped through a tiny waterfall.

"Guarding and barrier spells. It takes a lot of magic to hold werewolves back. All the guards and they still get nervous."

Of course it took a lot of magic. More than a safe-house worth, to be sure.

It wasn't exactly cramped inside, but it wasn't roomy. The open ceiling was a mixed blessing; it kept the hall from feeling like a dungeon, but it also left a perfect view of what was happening in the dimming sky.

The last person, a Muggle with dreadlocks, passed through the door and it clanked shut of its own volition. Officials spaced themselves around the perimeter, looking in at them. A zoo came to mind (and something about a snake). They each held their wands at the ready.

He felt it before he could see it. A ripple passed through the congregation, all muscles tensing as one. He tilted his head back, looked to the sky, and for the second time, felt himself lose his mind.

**Official Envoy Sent to Gurgs**

A delegation of trained diplomatic wizards recently embarked on a mission to begin discussions with various giant leaders, or "Gurgs" as they are known in the giant language. These discussions are to concern everything from land allotment for giant reservations to potential punishments for giants who sided with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Skeptics from all sides question the wisdom of this action; giants are known largely for their aggression and bloodlust, not their willingness to engage in diplomacy. But the supporters of this initiative insist that there is a community there, one that can be connected with, if the effort is made on our side. Both sides wait for news from the delegation and hopes for their safe return.


	12. Chapter 12

Ch 12

There were people. So close. There had never been people before, and he knew exactly how he wanted to rip them, which parts he would gobble down first and which he would linger over, gnawing them down and licking out marrow. There was a male, past his prime, a layer of fat over old muscle. He would eat him first, then the female by his side, the one with plump veins. Three bounds and he would be on them. Two now, as he rushed past grey blurs on all sides. One more leap before they were his.

No! His coat sparked with the magic, his eyes blurred from the flash. He gnawed on the bars, but still nothing; the spells crackled and burned in his jaws.

He would go for another. The man across the room, too much sinew for a first choice, but good in a pinch. He ran past beasts, but they were not food, they did not matter. He could almost feel the tendons snapping between his teeth.

Again, the burning, the flash. This one was just as forbidden, just as withheld. The woman with the slow feet. No! The man with the long mane. No! They were all kept from him, all too far away, and he wanted them NOW! And he always got what he wanted!

_Like boxing gloves._

The voice was small, annoying. He was hungry and it didn't know how to get food, so what was the point of it? He slammed again and again, but the bars held. There would be no good meat tonight.

…But he was not out of options. There was blood all around him, just trapped beneath fur. Fur and fangs and tearing claws and skin pulled tight over bones, but each of them was still full of meat. He just needed to get to it.

Teeth raked his flank and he spun to face his opponent. A gaunt male with old eyes, ready for a fight. They circled each other on stiff legs, ready to lunge, ready to pull and tear and feed and feed and feed until there was nothing more to eat. This was a fighter, but he was hungry; the odds felt even.

The thin one lunged. He lunged. And from the side, three more lunged. This would be a battle royal, followed by a feast. He opened his mouth, ready to bite down on flesh…

And got a mouthful of tail. The interloper leaped again, just out of his reach. The other two circled the old one, taunting him. Drawing him away. Stealing his meal.

He wanted to eat. And now he wanted to hurt.

The jumping wolf was everywhere, flashes of grey fur and hot eyes. It nipped at his sides, tugged at his tail. He whipped around to confront it. And hit the ground as it bit his back leg and pulled. He scrambled to get up, to hurt this maddening puppy of a thing, but it draped itself over his top half, pinning his front legs. All he could do was kick and flail and breathe

…and breathe…and breathe in the scent of fur and sweat and blood and dust and something much different, something much warmer and closer and fuller and bigger.

He thought of clean kitchen tables looked over by thin women. He thought of shared piles of meat and prey brought down together. Fat men clapping hands on maroon-clad shoulders and puppies nuzzling down in dens.

He stopped kicking. The wolf drew back, stepping carefully. It smelled new. They all did, every wolf around him, even those still in the middle of battles. How could he have ever thought they were food? No.

These smelled like pack.

His new pack mate sprinted off, bumping into as many others as it could, spreading that sent of safety and home everywhere it went. He took off after it; he didn't know what he would do if he caught this new companion. Maybe jump on him, maybe roll around, maybe tear out his throat. But he wouldn't eat him.

The tone of the whole group started to shift. There were fewer and fewer hungry fighters and more and more wolves simply running. They chased or followed or just ran to get rid of the unspent tension that was no longer hunt energy or fight energy. Blood flowed freely from all, but it could be ignored. He only dipped down his head once to lick it off the ground, but was quickly bowled over by a female running a loop around him.

There were still fights. Scuffles and puppy tussles and a few all out battles in the middle of the cage, battles too serious for even the interlopers to intrude upon. The rest of the pack ran rings around them, watching and smelling and thinking thoughts too simple for words.

The hunger still lurked at the edge of his brain. The humans were still there, just out of reach, and if he looked at them, he could feel his mouth working, slavering over muscles and flesh. The anger was there, too, and woe be it on any who ran too close, those who passed the line from _pack_ to _threat_. But the little annoying voice was louder now. It said things like _"I'm safe now"_ and _"I'll get out of this alive"_. Not important things, but things that were still nice to hear.

Like the howl. The greatest battle in the center ended; the weaker lay in a pool of blood on the ground. The scratched and bitten victor tipped its head back to the boxed-in sky and cried out. It continued alone, taking its moment. Then others began to join; a puppy howled along with its little whimper of a call, an old tawny female with a high-pitched wail, a muscular male with a thick bay. They joined in one by one until they were one voice. A voice with no message, other than "We are here".

The wizards tightened their grips on their wands.

**Families Find Strength in Unity**

Conflicts often bring out the worst in people, but they can also be opportunities for individuals and groups to come together, stronger than ever before. Surveys show that families across the country feel closer and more tightly connected due to the war, and that they foresee this added connection continuing into and after reconstruction. "My oldest daughter really stepped up for her family this past year," said Aurelia Bulstrode, 39, a Healer at St. Mungo's. "My husband is not…well, not around, and with five younger children and all the extra work needed at the hospital, I needed all the assistance I could get. Millicent stayed home from Hogwarts to care for them. Oh, in retrospect is seems like a good decision, but this was before all of the school's…unpleasantness. She really went out of her way to care for this family." Millicent Bulstrode, 18, a quiet and composed young lady, declined to comment. But the Bulstrode family is one of many that have been brought together and persevered through adversity.

Do you know someone who went above and beyond the call of duty? Write to The Daily Prophet, Human Interest Section, to make your story known.


	13. Chapter 13

Ch 13

There was no cigarette smoke this time. Just a stone floor against his face and a body full of aches. He licked his lips and felt dried blood chip and flake away. He knew he should open his eyes, but the lids felt lined with lead. Laying still and evaluating felt like a better course of action.

His side seemed to radiate heat, along with a dull throb in the scar tissue. Small cuts dotted his body, and at least one was still bleeding (he assumed that was blood trickling down his back). His left ankle felt heavy and thick; an experimental twitch sent shocks of pain up his leg. His muscles felt…well, like he had shape-shifted against his will twice then passed out on an uneven stone floor. But all of this came second to the sandpaper that had taken up residence in his throat. He gulped futilely, but no relief came. It was not just the roughness of thirst, but a rasp, as if he had spent hours yelling.

Had he? As he entered more and more into consciousness, the previous night swam in and out of focus, settling into a blur of grey and red images, and a vague feeling that, while it had been bad, it could have been worse.

The throat situation was becoming urgent, and the first step to finding water was opening his eyes. He slid the lids apart, only to immediately close them against the early morning light streaming in through the grid of bars above.

He blinked to clear his eyes, and saw the most beautiful thing in the world just a few inches from his face; a tin cup with a drop of water running down the side. He wouldn't have enjoyed the sight more if the cup were gold.

His arm felt like taking its own sweet time, so he had a chance to glance at his surroundings. The majority of his vision was consumed by floor, but he got glimpses of the people lying around him. There was a scratched elbow a bit to his right and a trainer-clad foot down by his knee. And just past his water cup, a pair of large brown eyes, one surrounded by scars, watching his hand's gradual process; the girl from last night. She watched as he pulled his cup close to his face, muscles screaming in protest. He tipped it into the corner of his mouth, trying not to spill it down his face.

He did. The girl smiled.

The water wasn't cold, but it was clean and it ran down his burning throat smoothly. The salty rust on his lips flaked or dribbled away, and it felt so good he just closed his eyes again. He had water and a place to lie; life was good again.

"Your shirt's ripped."

He could pretend to be asleep again. It wasn't that far from the truth.

"The shoulder. It's ripped. Did you know that?"

Nope. Still sleeping.

"Our clothes don't rip. Or get dirty. Look."

It was pure reflex that opened his eyes. The girl moved both of her arms before her (showing a lot more energy than he had) and showed him the still-pristine blue sleeve. She wiped one hand over her forehead, through a bleeding cut, and held her wet fingers over the cloth on the other arm. The blood dripped down, but slid along the fibers until it hit the stones, leaving no trail behind it. She locked eyes, and said with great solemnity:

"It's magic."

He snorted, a shard of a laugh that pushed through his torso, and her face broke into a smile. Broke was a very apt word; the scars on her cheek made her skin pucker, and her front three teeth were chipped in half. (At least they were baby teeth. Those grew back, right?) The cut trickled steadily down into her right eye. She rested her chin on her arms, still looking at him.

"Are you a wizard?"

"No," he croaked. He tried another sip of water, spilling more.

"That's too bad. I'm a witch. We're better, 'cause our blood is clean." She poked at the red on the floor. "How did your blood get dirty?"

"I don't know."

"Oh."

All this talking was making him even thirstier, and he couldn't stand to see his gifted water spilled and wasted. He lifted himself up onto an elbow, collapsed under the effort, and instead just turned his head sideways to get the water in. An identical cup sat in front of the girl, although she appeared to have drunk hers already.

"Can I have your water?"

He took another sip.

"Please? I'm really thirsty."

Damn it. He reached out and tipped half of his water into her cup.

"Thank you. You're really nice. If I was really good, would you be my daddy?"

Going back to sleep was the only truly good response to a question like that. The last thing he saw as his eyes drifted close was her hand pulling his cup across the floor, taking the last of his water.

-/-

-/-

The next thing he woke to was footfalls right in front of his face. The whole room was alive now, people moving all around him, the metal door clanging across the room as men and women trickled out, going about their Thursdays as if nothing had happened. His water cup was back in place in front of him and newly filled; this time he was actually able to lift himself up into a sitting position to drink, despite his muscles' protest.

He looked around for the little girl. He wasn't able to pick her specifically out of a crowd of blue-robed children, but did end up meeting eyes with Audrey, who strode across the room towards him, only a slight hitch in her stride.

"Glad to see you're awake. It takes new wolves a while to get up in the mornings, I've noticed. You feeling okay? Get some water; the Healers refill it on each pass-by. How'd it go? I forget if I asked, is this your first full moon or just first one here?"

It took him a moment to sort through which question to answer first.

"It's my second. Second transforming, I guess. The one where you got bit doesn't count, right?"

"Uh, no, not generally." She was holding back another question, but she seemed to have found her tact and her silence. He drank some more water and rolled his shoulders, trying to work out a few of the kinks.

"Your friend Perry's picking you up?"

"Percy. Yeah."

"Well, relax, take it at your own pace, and get going when you feel like it." She turned to walk away.

"Hey, who can I talk to about my ankle?" She followed his gesture, and he pulled up the leg of his jeans to reveal the swelling and bite mark.

"Ouch. They must have missed it when they came around, they tend to wake up and fix people who are chewed on. Minor injuries head over there; I'll give you a hand."

She put a hand beneath his shoulder and angled him up to his feet, with the ease of a great deal of practice. They hobbled out of the caged area, Audrey waving and greeting people in passing, and headed to one of the benches. A woman in the blue robes was pointing her wand at people sitting on the bench, making cuts knit themselves back together and bruises fade. A man walked behind her, pressing bandages to the things that wouldn't heal on their own.

Audrey led him to one of the benches and sat him down. They both pressed against the wall to avoid the pack of light blue-robed children moving out the door, led by another official.

At the end of the group was the little girl, walking alongside her twin. She slowed down, taking the time to wave enthusiastically. He waved back, a trace of a smile finding its way onto his lips.

"Looks like you made a little friend" said Audrey. She waved to the girl as well, who beamed at the added attention. The twin noticed this little back and forth, grabbed her sister's arm and dragged her (as well as a child with a heavy limp can) into the heart of the crowd, past teenagers who appeared as a sort of rear guard.

Audrey chewed on her lower lip.

"Always good to see community bonds, but if it comes at the cost of isolation, how useful is it? I mean, we end up running into the same thing as a lycanthrope community as a whole; people feel like they either have to turn their backs on everything relating to werewolves, or live in the woods and eat rabbits all month long. If, as a whole, we strove for more of a middle ground, I think we could find a real platform to build up some political weight and…" Dudley tuned out somewhere around "politics", content instead to relax on the bench and wait for the Healer to get to her healing. Audrey kept talking until a bell toll chimed somewhere over the entrance way; there was no bell, but he had stopped caring about things like that around the third time the Weasley's mirror had talked to him.

"Shit, it's eight and I need to head back to my flat to get ready for work. My boss has been great about giving me a lot of days off, but he's a Muggle, so I can't explain about this, and two to three days off every month gets to be a bit much." Apparently she got even chattier when she was hurrying. "But Dudley, I'm gonna write down my address here, got some paper off someone earlier, and I want to keep in touch between moons, okay? What kind of community is it if people only meet twelve days a year? I gotta run, but here's my phone number too, don't know if you have a phone, but hey, no harm in having the number, and I will talk to you later!" She thrust the piece of paper at him and sprinted off, although he watched her stop to have three more hurried conversations before she got out the door. She was a woman who didn't stop moving.

…It hadn't really occurred to him before. But since he had made it through his second full moon, his first in out of the house, it was probably time to think about it.

For almost two months he hadn't thought past getting out of the wreckage. Or dying, whichever came first. For the last nine days, he hadn't thought past the full moon. But now he was doing fine (at least by a new wildly-altered set of standards); he was free, he had food, no one was coming to kill him, and even the transformations seemed manageable, now that they weren't totally unknown.

So all he was left with was the big question: what next?

**Reconstruction at Hogwarts: Getting Ready for the School Year?**

Anyone to walk through the streets of Hogsmeade can tell you what the image of the damaged castle has done to the morale of the town. Those same people would be glad to hear that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is undergoing heavy reconstruction. But are these repairs signs that the school wishes to reopen their doors in September, as they have for centuries? "The Board of Governors is still in discussions regarding the fate of Hogwarts," said Hogwarts Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. "The repairs are simply to ensure that no further damage comes to the school in the meanwhile." Hogwarts was, of course, the site of both a large battle and the death of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named just over one month ago. It was also the site of a great loss of life, among Death Eaters, civilians, and most tragically, students. Would it be right, or even in good taste, to try to hold classes and Quidditch practices and extracurricular activities in the same halls that so many young people died in? "Of course the emotional welfare of our students is one of our highest priorities, along with giving them a proper and well-rounded education. If they cannot find that at Hogwarts this year, then, well…the point is we will not hold classes until we are sure that the school, the building and the students are ready. Not a moment sooner." The Board of Governors declined to comment on the possible re-opening, but did recommend that "concerned parents should feel encouraged to look into alternate educations for their children for the upcoming year."


	14. Chapter 14

Ch 14

"Dudley, would you like some more toast? Or we have a few more eggs, would you like those?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure? It's no trouble."

"No, I'm fine."

"Okay, would anyone else like them?"

The rest of the table converged on the food, grabbing up the last bits that littered the table. If it had been another sibling who was offered priority, there might have been arguments, but Dudley was a houseguest. Plus no one could argue with letting him have a bit of extra food, not with how bad he looked.

He had limped in with Percy half an hour ago, while Harry and the family were finishing up breakfast. He had chugged down some water, sipped some tea, and gnawed on a piece of toast, and now he could barely keep his eyes open. The Healer had said he would get his appetite back soon, and to give his ankle a bit of time to spring back. She hadn't mentioned the sheer exhaustion, but judging by the faces of everyone else who had left the "Cage", it was a pretty common thing.

A large owl swooped in through the open window and dropped a newspaper in the middle of the table. They could say what they liked about stamps and envelopes being weird, but the postman never dropped letters in the butter. Mr. Weasley gave the bird a few copper coins (again, paper money was much easier) and it soared back out. Mrs. Weasley and Charlie leaned in to read over his shoulder, but from what he could gather, the rest of the family followed some sort of magazine instead of the main paper. He could have asked for details, but with so many strange things in the household, he had just stopped caring after a point.

"Minerva's in the news." Mrs. Weasley said it with a casual air, but she was quickly surrounded by six crowding bodies. Mr. Weasley cleared the table with his wand and laid out the paper. Dudley caught a glance of a large black headline next to a picture of a castle: "Reconstruction at Hogwarts: Getting Ready for the School Year?" The others stood and crowded around to read the short article.

"They're thinking of not re-opening?" asked Harry, a twinge of anger creeping into his voice. "After all everyone went through?"

"Well, I'm sure they're just trying to be respectful." Mrs. Weasley appeared to have developed a sudden head cold.

"We all fought to keep Hogwarts safe. What was the point if they're just going to give up on the school anyway?" said Ron.

"And what's all this 'alternate education' stuff?" asked Ginny, slumping back in her chair with arms crossed. "What, they expect every kid in Britain to be home schooled next year?"

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shared a quick look over the paper. Mr. Weasley cleared his throat quietly.

"We were actually meaning to discuss that with you. Ginny, Ron, if you were to go back, it would both be for your seventh years. The final year is little more than preparation for your N.E.W.T.'s, so we were thinking that you could just study for them at home and take them in a testing center on your own time. Harry, you'd obviously be welcome to stay and do the same if you wish. And I'm sure Hermione's parents will want her home for a while, given all that they've been through, so it's not like you'd be missing going to school with her. Does that sound all right?"

The silence at the table could have been cut with a knife. Dudley was really wishing that he had gone up to bed before this conversation had started.

"You don't want us to go back to Hogwarts?" whispered Ginny, watching her parent's faces closely. "But Mum, it's like Ron said, what was the point of it all if we're just going to give up on the school?"

"Ginny, this article is right," said Mrs. Weasley, trying to be gentle. "Do you really think you could go to classes in the same place as the battle? Walk through the hallway where we-" her voice came in short chops now, "where we lost Fred? Because I don't know about you children, but I don't think I could. Arthur? Do you think you could walk through the place where he died on the way to dinner every night? Or run through when you're late for something?" Mr. Weasley kept his eyes on the paper, staring at the black and white picture of the castle.

He wanted to go upstairs and sleep so badly. But he couldn't be the first one to leave the table, not when a standoff was building around him. Mrs. Weasley spoke again.

"I know Hogwarts is important to you all. It's an important place to me. But don't you think staying home right now is important too? We're safe. Let's take this time to be together. As a family."

Sleep. Sleep and being anywhere but here. He would trade anything he had for those two gifts.

Percy felt the same, judging by his face. His lips were held tight and he stared into the middle distance. His hands were in his lap, but from his position right next to him, Dudley could see that they were balled into fists. George, the one-eared twin, glanced over occasionally, one eyebrow raised.

"It's not a final decision, dears. But please consider it. Think about it, talk to your friends. We want to do what's best for you." She took her husband's hand and looked convincingly into Ron, Ginny, and Harry's eyes. Apparently Harry was part of the group "dears" in this house.

George Weasley had had enough of this emotional stuff. He stood up and clapped his hands heartily.

"Well, that was a great breakfast, Mum, but I've got to get going. Lee and I are going to head over to the shop and see how much is left after looters had their way with it. There were some pretty nasty anti-burglar spells; we might be cleaning up canary feathers for a while. See you all tonight." He kissed his mother's cheek, clapped a hand on his father's shoulder, only letting it linger for a moment, and was out the door, followed by a loud crack from the garden.

The tension in the kitchen was broken, and everyone went off in their own directions. Harry, Ron and Ginny darted upstairs; Dudley knew Ron's room was supposed to be at the top of the house, and that was where the three spent a great deal of their time. Dudley pulled himself out of his chair, grateful to at last get a chance to head up to Percy's room.

"Oh, Dudley, one moment, if you don't mind." Mr. Weasley had found his voice again. Mrs. Weasley was busy at the sink, her shoulders stiff.

"We got a letter the other night from Kingsley. He said that he would be able to oversee the, um, the legal issues surrounding your…your parents' deaths, talking to the authorities and the like. And if you like, they can take care of the funerals as well, as a sort of, well not a consolation, but a sign of respect, I suppose. If you wish, the only thing required of you would be a list of people who should be informed. Unless you would like to take a more active role, that is."

A more active role? What, did they want him to dig the graves himself? His lack of sleep and long night was sapping away his store of patience. The wizards had gotten them killed, of course they should be the ones to help clean up the aftermath, tell all the right lies to the right people. It wasn't his job.

But he kept hold on his tongue. Right after an argument with their children was not the time to unload on the couple that was letting him stay with them. He shrugged by way of an answer.

"I'll write up a list. Just let me know when it is."

He'd show up, go through all the ceremony. It'd be his last chance to see them. Not that he hadn't had enough good looks back at the safe house.

At least they'd be cleaner this time.

**Cases Still Pending in Redistributions of Homes**

The Ministry has been criticized lately regarding the speed at which trials are taking place and how soon both punishments and rewards are being doled out. But perhaps the most troublesome thing to be delayed is the redistribution of homes that were taken from Muggle-born wizards. Under the direction of former Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission, Dolores Umbridge, dozens of families were ousted from their homes, or else lost their jobs and were forced to sell their houses. Others were chased out by Death Eaters, only to have Snatchers, vagrants, or worse, werewolves, move in and take their place while they were gone. In the aftermath of the war, many have attempted to return home, only to find the doors locked, pending Ministry investigation, or the house still occupied by the thieves. This is perhaps one of the most crucial of the issues that the Ministry must see to, even more important than doling out punishment to Death Eaters, because the longer they dawdle, the longer families are left to depend on the generosity of their friends and neighbors, or else return to the streets that they were forced to. Temporary housing has been established across the country to aid these people, but a spare cot can only be enough for so long, and only when a person is back in their own place can the return to normality truly begin.


	15. Chapter 15

Ch 15

Wearing a suit was the strangest part. An owl had flown in through the window during breakfast, the clock had shown when George was traveling to his shop, and they had driven to the funeral in a magic car, but the suit was still what made him feel off. It just showed how much his life had changed. His parents would have loathed it.

But they weren't here right now, so he had to wear a suit. The fabric was stiff and hot, completely wrong for June weather. But it was formal and it was black, so it fit the occasion.

Mr. Weasley had taken him and Harry into London the other day to buy their suits. Dudley was only three sizes bigger than his cousin now. Once, that would have been a sign that he had worked hard all year, that he was doing even better in boxing than before. Now it just meant that magic was draining him dry once a month. Maybe that's why Harry was always so skinny.

Or maybe Mum and Dad just never fed him enough.

That had been one of the hardest parts of the dementor attack. Seeing Harry as a person meant seeing his parents for what they were too: mean. He wasn't burying perfect people today. He was burying bullies who had praised one child in their house and tormented the other. He was burying a fat, cruel man who forced a one year old to sleep in a cupboard, and a cold shrew of a woman who had never been half of a decent caretaker to her nephew, all because she hated her dead sister. They were harsh, greedy, cruel people who had spoiled him so rotten he hadn't even realized what a bastard he was. They probably deserved hell for what they had made Harry live through.

And he wanted to throw himself down on the hot grass and cry until his eyes ran dry because he missed them so very, very, much. In short, Dudley Dursley wanted his Mummy and Daddy. And they weren't coming back.

The suit was itchy too.

One could say what they wanted about wizards, but no one could deny that they held good funerals. The flowers bloomed just a little larger than normal. The coffins had a perfect amount of sheen and polish. The priest giving the speech was appropriately somber and respectful. A thoroughly normal but still superb funeral. If she had been asked beforehand, it was exactly how Petunia Dursley would have wanted to be buried.

He should have paid more attention, but what did it really matter? The man up there had never met them, they hadn't gone to church, and he'd had more than enough time to look at the bodies, and it was closed casket anyways. There was only so much to see about a nice box. So he looked at the people instead. Vernon's boss and a few co-workers were there, in dark suits much fancier than his. Aunt Marge shared the first row with him and Harry; she had actually left her dogs at home today, and even brought a black cane to match her poncho of a dress. A few of the old gossips from Privet Drive had shown up, as well as crazy old Mrs. Figg. Probably the only surprise was the person standing beside Mrs. Polkiss (who had often played cards and shared gossip with Petunia).

He hadn't seen Piers in over a year, and had only said a quick goodbye before the family had headed for the not-so-safe house. He hadn't even thought of him when he included Mrs. Polkiss on the list. Somehow this young man, who had been his best friend for as long as he could remember, had completely slipped his mind. Yes, the gang had never been as tight as it had three years ago. It was Dudley's fault; after the dementor attack, hanging with the thugs had lost a great deal of its glamour. But he and Piers had stayed friends, sharing a dorm at Smeltings and sneaking out to smoke pot every now and then.

It felt like he was looking back in time, staring at the thin boy. Dudley felt worlds apart from him, as if the time with wizards had pushed him farther and farther from the normal people he had lived with. To say nothing of the bite on his side. Piers happened to look up and caught Dudley's eye. He gave a low wave and a grimace, a combined "Hello", "How are you?" and "Sorry your parents are dead". Piers had always managed to say a lot with his face, while expressions seemed to get lost in the great expanse of Dudley's.

He returned the wave, then turned back to pretend to listen to the priest. It turned out he was close to done. He asked if anyone would like to step forward and say a few words.

Aunt Marge hobbled her way up to the pulpit and turned to face the crowd. She had her speech-making face on, one she had always shared with Vernon, a face that showed a ramble about to commence.

"Now I always told my brother that he should be careful in foreign cities, because no one knows what kind of things can be lurking in the alleyways there," she boomed to the crowd. "You get the same kind of trouble in London, of course, but you go abroad and it is just run rampant. You end up with dogs running wild, not good-bred things like I happen to raise, but wild mongrels. And you have to be careful, because if you're not, something could happen and-…"

Marge stopped mid-sentence and looked at the coffin before her, like she was just realizing it was there.

"…Never mind. Not important. I miss my brother and I miss Petunia. I loved them very much. That's all that needs to be said."

And she walked back to her spot.

The priest looked to Harry questioningly. Harry shook his head, his lips held tightly. Dudley wondered if he had found it in him to miss them yet, or if it still hadn't come. He couldn't blame him either way.

The priest gestured to Dudley, leaving the pulpit to him. But his aunt had said it all, everything that needed to be said. Vernon Dursley and Petunia Dursley were not nice people. They may not have even been good people. But he loved them, he missed them, and his life would not be the same without them. That was all that needed to be said.

-/-

-/-

"Hey man. Long time." Piers reached out and shook his hand. "Sorry about…you know." He gestured back towards the graves, off from where the small reception was taking place. "You doing okay?"

Dudley had been asked that a lot in the last few weeks, but this was the first time he felt like answering honestly. But he ultimately decided against it.

"Yeah, I'm doing okay."

"Where are you staying?"

"With Harry." He nodded back towards the black haired teen, who was being lectured by Aunt Marge on the cut of his suit. "We're both staying with a friend of his."

Piers eyebrows shot up and he laughed uncomfortably.

"Really? Wow, that whole 'be nicer to the freak' thing really paid off. And it's good?"

"It's going okay. Kinda strange."

Piers rocked back and forth on his heels, as if deciding whether or not to say something. He put on an overly casual tone.

"Hey, did you happen to get any of my letters, D? I wrote you a few."

"No. We weren't able to get post, with…travel and all, and then-"

"Yeah, say no more, man. It's just…well, my dad was able to get me this job lined up in London with a branch of his company, and my mum's helping my pay for a flat out there. And when I didn't hear from you, I asked Malcolm to be my flat mate and he said yes, but he just backed out to go shack up with some chick, so I still kinda got a room free. If, like, you're interested."

Life wasn't going to be normal again. Even if he moved back into Number Four Privet Drive, it wouldn't be the same. But this? This was closer to normal than he could have dreamed of. No more spells to make breakfast, or flying brooms in the garden, or intruding on what was clearly his cousin's space. Forget Percy and his "magical community". Forget Audrey and her "werewolf solidarity". He'd be a monster for twelve days, and Dudley Dursley the rest of the year.

Piers watched him closely.

"So what do you say?"

"…Yeah, it sounds alright."

**Citizens Find Reasons to Celebrate Across Country**

The tone in Diagon Alley has been a somber one for longer than many care to recall; growing dread, clear signs of distress, and outright violence became staples of the scenery. But with over a month passing since the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, life is beginning to come back into the street that so many once flocked to. One contributing factor to this new energy, not to mention the rise in commerce taking place, is the surge in celebrations being planned or performed. Weddings that were held off due to fear and violence are now being performed left and right, along with all the frivolity associated with nuptials. Birthdays are once again being recognized and celebrated; on the other end of the spectrum, some families decide to honor their lost loved ones by joyously celebrating their life, rather than mourning their death. And with combatants against the Death Eaters returning to their homes and families, christenings are a staple of the summer. While there is still much to be done, it raises the spirits to see men, women, and children rejoicing over what has been accomplished, and how much they truly have.

Do you have a story about a celebration in the midst of this troubled time? Write to the Daily Prophet, Social Calendar section, to spread the news.


	16. Chapter 16

Ch 16

Piers wasn't moving into his flat for another month, a week after the next full moon, so Dudley still had plenty of time to spend at the Weasley's house before he could head back to the Muggle world. The reactions of the family were somewhat mixed. Mr. Weasley asked him repeatedly if he was really going to be okay. Mrs. Weasley made it clear that he would always have a place at the Burrow if he needed it. Harry asked if he needed any help packing or moving into Piers' place. And the rest of the family couldn't have cared less; he had been a quiet houseguest, so it didn't really matter whether he stayed or went.

Percy and he still shared their daily cigarettes up in his room, although Dudley was buying his own packs now. He had to go down into the village often to call Piers from a phone booth (after explaining to him that, no, the family he was staying with did not have a telephone), and he was able to stop by the shop and get his smokes. He didn't keep himself to Percy's strict three a day rule anymore, but the chats over their morning and evening fags had become a staple of the day, as regular as meals. He told Percy what he had learned about the new flat, and occasionally caught the flash of envy in the ginger's eyes. Dudley had gathered that he had lived away from his family for a while, and that he was practically as new at the Burrow as Dudley was. Percy didn't talk about it, and it seemed to be one more unspoken thing in the household.

He would have to get used to unspoken things. Keeping his magical cousin a secret for seven years was one thing, but this was a secret about himself. Every month, he'd have to find some excuse about why he would go missing for a full night. He'd come back beat up and exhausted, and not be able to tell Piers why. He figured the only up side to this was that, among normal people (Muggles), he was guaranteed that no one would be able to guess.

The next week clicked by at a slow pace, just more weight lifting, eating, and smoking. He had asked Percy to conjure up a punching bag in the room, and he had tried out Aunt Marge's gloves, which were truly exceptional, and far too good for practice. The two sets of gloves meant that, in theory, he could have asked one of the Weasley's to box with him. But Percy had wrinkled his nose at the prospect, and that didn't leave much else. He didn't want to intrude with Ron or Ginny, lest Harry think he was trying to move in, George would probably turn his gloves into monster squids or something, and he barely knew Charlie (although he was the most tempted to ask him, due to Charlie's boxer build). So he just practiced with the bag, trying to stay in form. Piers had scoped out the neighborhood around the flat and found a studio nearby that did boxing and wrestling; he didn't box himself, but was long acquainted with Dudley's love for hitting things.

So the days passed without much deviation from each other, the only difference between them being how much closer it was to the day of his departure. And were it not for a newspaper, the monotony would have extended to the twenty third as well.

Again, a gathering around the breakfast table. Percy, Charlie and Mr. Weasley were about to head off to work, George was going to meet with someone named Angelina, and everyone else was going to head off in their own directions. The owl with the paper landed in front of Harry, and he glanced at the headline. Or more specifically, at the date listing at the top. His brow furrowed and he glanced up at Dudley, still finishing his cereal.

"Hey. Happy Birthday, Dudley."

Mrs. Weasley had been clearing dishes, but she let them clank back to the table and looked between the cousins.

"Dudley, it's your birthday?" she cried. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," he mumbled around some cornflakes.

"Well, why didn't you two tell me sooner? I am so sorry, Dudley! Well, we just have to have a celebration! Not something too large," she assured to his widened eyes. "Just a little get-together. Besides, it's been too long since we've had a good large Weasley dinner. Oh, Arthur, we should invite over Andromeda, it will be so nice to see Teddy again. And while you're at the office, could you mention it to Kingsley, see if he can come by? Can you kids thinks of anyone who should be invited? Oh, and of course Dudley, are there any guests you would like to bring?"

He held back the response "yeah, vodka and sleeping pills". He was not exactly in a party mood. If not for Harry's recognition, he could have slid unnoticed into adulthood. Instead he got a thrown-together party with a crowd of almost-strangers. Oh boy.

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I'll think about it."

"Okay, everyone be ready at seven tonight, we can have a nice dinner and cake. I should start cooking now, Ginny would you like to help me? We can have beef, some nice potatoes, a bit of that broccoli from the garden…" The males of the house wandered off, to their jobs or distractions. Dudley headed back to Percy's room, musing on who he would ever bring to a party at the Weasley's.

It's not that the Weasley's weren't nice or that he wasn't grateful for all they had done. Even this impromptu party clearly came from good will. But the last thing he wanted was to show Piers what he was doing now (if he would even be able to come. What, would they put away the talking mirror, hide the magic clock, and have everyone hold their wands behind their backs?) Same went for all his other friends, Malcolm and Gordon and Dennis. They just weren't part of what he was going through now, and he was fine keeping it that way. He'd be back to their reality soon enough, no need to pull them into this one.

It was strange thinking that his cousin and his new smoking buddy would be the closest to friends he had at his own eighteenth birthday party. He just didn't know anyone else, not people that were part of the "magical community" and actually gave a damn about him…

-/-

-/-

"Thank you so much for inviting me! I have to admit, I really wasn't expecting to hear from you, at least not before the next moon. I've been told I come on a bit strong, and even with that aside, it takes most folks a while to get into the spirit of the werewolf community, the idea that we're all connected by more than a magical transformation, but a real personal bond. Here, got you a present, I don't really know what you're interests are, but I hope you still enjoy." Audrey held out the wrapped box to him, white paper with a silver bow.

"Thanks." He led her into the Weasley's house. She did look very nice; a soft long sleeved shirt with a high collar seemed odd in summer, but it covered up the marks he knew were along her arms and shoulders; he caught just a glimpse of reddened skin at her ankles, below the hem of her long skirt.

Mrs. Weasley had a table set up in the back yard, with places for all the adults, and an old highchair for the baby, who was now sporting bright red hair (not a normal red like the Weasley's, of course; the kid's head was practically neon). Audrey stopped in the doorway, looking at the crowd.

"So you said in your letter that you're staying with the Weasley family? That's very kind of them, who should I go thank for having me ov-"

Her words cut off mid-sentence as her eyes fell on his cousin. She leaned down and whispered in Dudley's ear.

"I didn't realize you knew Harry Potter."

"Yeah. He's my cousin. He's friends with Ron Weasley, that's why I'm staying here."

Audrey blinked several times in quick succession, eyes wide.

"I, uh, wow. Okay. I'll thank the hosts for having me over and your cousin for saving the world. Got it."

It was still strange to hear Harry spoken about with such reverence. Back home, calling him tolerable was considered a compliment, a needlessly kind act. Here, he was some sort of Messiah. Dedalus in particular had been ecstatic about knowing the great Harry Potter's family, and was disappointed when they didn't have much to tell him. As much as he consciously knew that Harry was someone important, the scrawny kid he used to beat up was the person Dudley knew him as first.

Audrey was still coming to terms with the surprise.

"I know I didn't ask a lot about your life, but I've found new werewolves aren't generally keen to talk about their home life, and you never know when you're treading on sensitive subject matter. I never meant to imply a lack of interest, sorry if it came across that way. Things like knowing that your cousin is Harry Potter, yeah, I'm interested in stuff like that. Did you have lunch with the Prime Minister, maybe, or go back in time and chat up Merlin?" A smile was starting to cut through her shock.

"No. I decided to narrow it down to one God-figure per day."

Audrey's snort drew eyes from across the lawn. Percy left his conversation with Charlie to stride over and extend a hand to Audrey.

"Miss Penn, it is very nice to see you again. I am glad you were able to come on such short notice."

"Thank you, it's nice to see you again, Perrr-" She was clearly grasping to recall his name. "-cy," she finally landed on. Percy seemed willing to overlook the awkwardness.

"Alright everyone, dinner is ready," called Mrs. Weasley. "Dudley, you and your friend can sit down over here." She pulled out a chair next to the dark woman with the baby. As Audrey introduced herself to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Dudley turned to his unknown neighbor.

"Happy Birthday, Dudley. We didn't get a chance to properly meet the other evening. My name is Andromeda Tonks. This little one," she patted the baby on its fiery head, "is my grandson Teddy. Say hello to Dudley, Teddy." The baby cooed and smacked his hands on his tray. One of the baby's eyes was bright blue, while the other, which somehow appeared larger than its mate, was a shade of violet.

Was this a normal wizard baby thing? Dudley didn't remember any stories about Harry having green hair or purple eyes. Maybe he had grown out of it before he came to live with them.

"Nice to meet you."

They sat down to the rich meal, with many different types of meat and vegetables and potatoes. He filled up his plate and listened to the conversations growing around him. Audrey was sandwiched between Mr. Weasley and Dudley, across the table from Percy; she was trying to make polite conversation.

"So what is it that you all do?"

"Percy and I both work at the Ministry," said Mr. Weasley. "I'm the head of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects."

"And I am currently working in the Department of Magical Transport. In the, um," Percy mumbled out the last bit, "Broom Regulatory Control."

George, who was sitting on Percy's right, snickered.

"They sure got your talents pegged, eh Perce?" He clapped a hand on Percy's shoulder and leaned in to Audrey. "Our Percy's quite the sportsman, can't you tell?"

Percy flushed pink and busied himself with his plate. Audrey, however, looked intrigued.

"A really important post, that. Hey, you look at it right, you could make the case that they were a key player in rescue efforts in the war."

Percy blinked at her.

"Pardon?"

"I know a fair number of people who tried to get out of the country on broomsticks. Floo was being watched, Apparition is too easy to track, not to mention that people like me need someone to Side-Along with. When the Broom Regulatory Control passed the legislation that allowed manufacturers to include built-in Disillusionment Charms three years ago, they laid the groundwork for the development of a sort of stealth broom. They're not common, of course, but I heard of more than a couple groups that used them to smuggle people abroad. A lot of lives were saved there."

Percy stared at her for a moment. George shrugged and turned back towards Ron, with no more enjoyment to be found at that side of the table.

Percy soon rediscovered his voice.

"But those charms have also caused a great deal of damage. They have made illegal transport of goods far easier and have become a staple of the black market. Simply because one group was able to find a positive use for them does not mean that they can be seen as a good thing."

"True. I've heard the same argument made for the illegality of flying carpets, although that debate has the added bonus of some seriously racist undertones."

"Racist! Carpets are larger devices which hold more people; they are clearly a larger threat to magical security than broomsticks. How is that an issue of race?"

"Woven fabric is more easily charmed than solid wood, especially for invisibility, so the risk of being noticed by Muggles is a moot point. And there are plenty of legitimate and legal purposes that carpets could be used for, with their added area. Do you honestly think that if one were not grounded in European culture and the other in Middle Eastern culture that there would be such a divide in how they were perceived and legislated in England?"

"I am not denying that there is some ethnic bias, but the detriments of carpets far outweigh some vague sense of global inclusion. Before the ban in 1953, the market was flooded with homespun carpets that seriously-"

It was the most Dudley had ever heard Percy speak outside of his bedroom. George and Mr. Weasley had completely abandoned the conversation, speaking to the people on their other sides. Audrey didn't care; she was practically leaning over the table, ready for Percy to pause long enough for her to deliver her next argument.

Andromeda was busy feeding Teddy bits of pureed potatoes and vegetables. At first Dudley thought the boy had covered himself in green beans, but he had instead turned his skin green to match.

"Is that normal?" Dudley blurted out. Audrey was too busy with Percy to say whether or not this was the right word. Andromeda smiled.

"He's a Metamorphmagus. He can change how he looks whenever he wants. Can't you?" she cooed to the baby. "Someone got that from Mummy, didn't they?" She turned back to Dudley.

"His mother, my daughter, was one as well. She was so much trouble when she was young. We'd go to the park and she'd have to wear a name tag, else we could never find her. She was a babysitter's nightmare." She slowly ran a hand through Teddy's now lime-green locks. "My husband and I used to joke that we were the only ones who knew her real face. For everyone else she put on a show."

She stopped her recollections and dabbed at her eyes with a napkin.

"I'm sorry; here I am falling to pieces at your birthday dinner. My daughter and her husband, Teddy's father, died at the Battle of Hogwarts. My mood is a bit inconsistent these days."

"It's not a problem," he said with complete honesty. "It's good to know people are sad over them being gone…That didn't come out right."

"No, it came out fine. They were good people, and they are sorely missed. Your cousin is Teddy's godfather, and I know he'll be just one person of many to tell him how great his parents were." She cleared some of the beans off of the baby's face.

"And I am sorry for your loss, Dudley. Losing a loved one, especially a parent, is hard at any age."

This baby would be raised knowing his parents were heroes. He got to bury a pair of bullies. But good or not, at least he had known them. He guessed sometimes life just balanced out like that.

**Hags Fight for Rights in Knockturn Alley**

Last week, a large coalition of hags, hag allies, and part-hags met in Knockturn Alley in a demonstration to fight for the rights of hags in the wizarding world. This comes on the heels of Ministry efforts to "clean up" Knockturn Alley, re-establishing order that had been lost during the war, and even in the years before. The hags claim that they were unjustly targeted and discriminated against during the inquiries, and that the Ministry should issue a formal apology for their actions. Special scrutiny was apparently given to half- or part-hags, the offspring of hags and wizards that retain traits of both species. Hag-rights advocates claim that hags are perfectly safe to the public, as long as they take care to find a diet that abates their taste for human flesh, and that part-hags are even less of a threat, the only issue being with the perceived moral failings of their parents.

Representatives from the Ministry were not forthcoming in statements regarding the demonstrations, although one member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was heard to have said on the scene: "We're still dealing with Muggle-borns, we're supposed to take time to give a damn about hags? I don't think so." The statement caused further outrage among the protestors and perhaps speaks to a larger issue in the wizarding government: what do we have the time and resources to focus on, and what is being swept under the rug?


	17. Chapter 17

Ch 17

Just before they were about to serve cake, the sky darkened and a light rain began to fall. The group moved inside to have dessert in the living room; Dudley tried to avoid this room whenever he could, with all its black draped pictures. It was a bit unnerving, eating cake while watched by the dead.

Percy and Audrey had not let anything pause their conversation; not the end of the meal, not the change of location, not even the total lack of interest from everyone present. They had moved from magic carpets to border restrictions to identification and registration and on to Audrey's forte: werewolves.

"There has to be some level of restriction involved," argued Percy. "At the full moon, werewolves pose a real threat to others, one that cannot be overlooked."

"When I was seventeen, a werewolf tackled me on my way home and tore my calf to ribbons. You do not need to explain to me the inherent danger involved. I am saying that werewolves need to be included in the decision making process and be active participants in the imposition of those safety measures. Werewolves as a whole feel disenfranchised and powerless, and that is exactly what has made them so vulnerable to figures like Greyback."

"So where does personal responsibility come into play? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named also played to the fears of a minority. Should purebloods who sided with him be given leniency?"

"The purebloods are a group of former elites who lost power. And don't you straw-man me. I'm talking about a group that struggles to feed itself. Yes, those who sided with Greyback must face the consequences, but if the werewolf community felt that it had more strength and security, I don't think as many would have joined him."

Even Percy seemed to be losing energy with this debate. He picked up two pieces of the cake that they had both ignored and passed one to Audrey. She continued to talk between bites.

"And I honestly think that some of the issues in the werewolf community are tied in with gender politics. A recent study in Germany showed that werewolves who only ran together during the full moon tended to be male, whereas the sorts of packs that formed, comprised of werewolves who lived together all month, were overwhelmingly female. And it really makes sense, reproduction patterns among mixed couples being what they are, and-"

"What?"

Dudley had been working on his cake and partially listening to the two of them (mostly going through the list of what had to be done before the move to Piers'), but he looked up when Andromeda joined their discussion. She was rocking Teddy to sleep in an old armchair in the corner, but she watched Audrey intently.

"What were you just saying? About mixed couples?"

Audrey looked a bit taken back, stopped in the middle of a speech.

"I was just talking about the ways werewolves reproduce. There isn't much research on it, especially here, but you do see a bit abroad. And if you've lived with werewolves for a while, you start to see the trends, especially when you're looking at whole packs. Basically, human bodies can't hold werewolves, and vice versa. The theory is that unborn werewolves might actually change during the full moon, and if the mother doesn't change too, her body will reject it. The same would happen if the mother changed and the baby didn't." She paused to take a bite of cake. "So the result is that, among mixed werewolf and human couples, werewolf mothers and human fathers will always have werewolf children, and human mothers and werewolf fathers will always have human children. If anything else is conceived, it doesn't get carried to term. Only females can pass on lycanthropy."

Throughout this lecture, more and more of the room had started listening, following Andromeda's lead. At her last sentence, it went dead silent. Every set of eyes but Audrey's and Dudley's came to rest on the sleeping baby. Andromeda freed one hand enough to wipe away tears.

"He didn't need to worry," breathed Harry. "All that anxiety, and he was always in the clear."

It was an emotional moment, Dudley could tell, but hell if he knew what emotion. There was a story here, a whole cast of characters he didn't know. But that was just part of life, wasn't it? Everyone had their own unspoken story.

-/-

-/-

The little party recovered enough for people to give Dudley a few birthday presents. Not everyone had time to get gifts on such short notice, but he was still thankful for what he got. From Mrs. Weasley, a box of delicious-looking cookies. From George, a sack of colorful candies (that Dudley would never eat, even if his life depended on it). From Harry, a promise for a great gift next year.

Percy got him a nice day planner-calendar mix with the phases of the moon in it, but Dudley had found the real present left on his bed earlier: a tin of good quality loose tobacco and a pack of magical rolling papers.

He opened Audrey's package last and found a handful of dried, wilted plants.

"Wolfsbane," she clarified. "I can't make the full potion, but the plant alone does a bit of good. You just chew on one of the stalks an hour before moonrise and it keeps you calmer while you're transformed. Don't swallow any of the stalks, because it's actually pretty poisonous. And don't chew it any time other than the full moon. Again, poisonous. And keep it away from kids."

"Let me guess: poisonous?"

"You got it."

A clock rang from deep in the house, striking ten. Audrey's eyes flew to her watch.

"Oh man, is it that late? I gotta run or miss the last train. Thank you all for having me, and happy birthday again, Dudley." She started for the door, when Percy held out a hand.

"If you wish, I would be glad to bring you home."

Her hand paused on the doorknob.

"Would it be an inconvenience?"

"None at all, I could take you by Apparition."

"Percy," cautioned Mr. Weasley, "you want to Apparate into a Muggle building? Didn't you say you have roommates, Audrey?"

"Yes, but they're both Squibs, so no danger there. You want to get into another case of powerless populations, there's one for you," she said, turning back to Percy. "The percentage of child abandonment is just disgusting, and-"

While they set off on a new topic, the rest of the party started cleaning up and going their own ways. Andromeda said her goodbyes, baby in one hand, and diaper bag in the other. She bid farewell to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, then turned to Dudley.

"It was very nice to actually meet you. I wish you the best of luck." She readjusted the baby and held him tighter. "It's going to be a hard road. But you seem like a young man who can do it."

She gave him a one-armed hug around the bag, and went to say goodbye to Harry. She let Harry hold Teddy for the last time of the evening, and then the two disappeared with a loud crack. Audrey said her thank you's and goodbye's again and disappeared with Percy. The others said good night and went up to their beds until it was just the two cousins and the pictures.

"…Happy Birthday, Dudley."

"Thanks, Harry."

**Controversial Trial Drawing to a Close**

The trial of Mr. Emory Nott, 63, one of the first Death Eater trials to take place since the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named , has shown signs of coming to an end. Mr. Nott has denied any voluntary involvement with the Death Eaters, claiming that he was a victim of the Imperius Curse for the duration of the war. His defense has taken serious criticism, given his previous claim to have also been under the Imperius Curse during the first war. Another damning note is that his son and only child, Theodore Nott, 18, was placed on the list of witnesses for the prosecution. The young Nott completed his seventh year at Hogwarts in the spring and fought on the side of the school, perhaps fighting against his own father in the Battle. His apparent lack of faith in his father's defense speaks volumes, but the defense for Emory Nott still holds strong that Mr. Nott was not responsible for his actions. This decision may set the tone for the rest of the Death Eater trials; the world waits with bated breath to see whether punishment or leniency will be the path taken by the Ministry in dealing with these dangerous men and women.


	18. Chapter 18

Ch 18

On his second trip to the Cage, he had barely been in the door a minute when the little girl found him.

"Hi."

"Hello."

"You didn't answer my question."

The large brown eyes looked up at him, just as wide and open and framed with scars as before. He was glad to see that her broken teeth had fallen out, or been removed, or something, leaving an empty gap. Missing front teeth was a little kid thing, made one think of playgrounds and tooth fairies. Broken teeth just spoke of fists.

Trust a former class thug to know.

"What was it again?"

"If I'm really nice, will you be my daddy?"

Magical children just had to stop being cute; it made it all the more unnerving when they did something weird.

"I'm not really old enough to be a dad. Sorry."

"Oh." She stared at him, not quite with an interrogating look, but a mild inquisition. Wasn't she supposed to be with the other kids? Where were the adults for these ones?

"Will you be my friend?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah, sure." She stuck her hand straight out to shake; his fingers completely engulfed hers.

"My name is Lucy." She had mostly been able to avoid the lisp of missing teeth, but her own name was proving difficult, coming out more as "Loothy".

"I'm Dudley."

He could see a few other small figures in the light blue robes through the crowd. They were dispersing far more than they had last time, mixing into the masses of grey and brown that made up the others; he could see a dark-blue robed adult darting between people with a list in hand.

Audrey finally came inside and made her way over to him. Percy had brought Dudley to the center again, and of course he just _happened_ to run into Audrey outside. Over the last week, Hermes could not seem to stay on his perch for more than an hour, at the rate Percy wrote back and forth to her. He had asked Dudley not to mention how late he had gotten back from dropping her off after the party (Appartating at one in morning was a bit harsh on a roommate), and Dudley thought it better not to mention how Percy was smoking his evening cigarettes with quite a bit more relish these days (although watching the man go red was certainly entertaining). When he had entered, they had been debating the merits and possible injustices of Tracking spells, and since she had probably also gotten into a fight with the name checker at the door, it was amazing she managed to get inside before moonrise.

"Why, hello there!" She beamed down at Lucy, putting on a cheery tone. "My name is Audrey. What's yours?"

"My name is Lucy. You're really pretty."

"Thank you. So are you."

The little girl wriggled at the compliment, eyeing Audrey closely. Dudley could tell the plea for a mother was just on her lips when a small hand grabbed her by the elbow.

"Lucy, you're not supposed to talk to people. Come on!"

Lucy's twin pulled at her sister, pausing to brush her long mousy hair out her eyes; Lucy's was cut short and slightly lopsided, probably to keep it out of the wounds on her face, but her sister's ran far down her back.

Lucy stood her ground, smiling up at Audrey and Dudley.

"We were just saying hello to your sister," said Audrey gently. She leaned down to meet the child on her level. "What's your name?"

The girl clenched her lips tightly. Audrey tried to look at the red badge on her chest, but she slapped her hand over it before Audrey could read.

"Her name's Molly," Lucy chimed in. Molly glared at her and stamped a foot against the stones in frustration. Audrey tried to plow on. She held out a hand.

"That's a lovely name. It's very nice to meet you, Molly. My name is Audrey, and this is Dudley."

Molly looked at the proffered hand for a moment, and then gave a mighty tug on her sister, managing to dislodge her and pull her into the crowd. Lucy waved as she went.

"Bye Audrey! Bye Dudley!"

Audrey stood and brushed off the knees of her jeans.

"Glad to see that they're bringing them a bit earlier now. As much as this place rubs me the wrong way, the opportunity for socializing is really priceless, and you don't want kids like that getting too isolated. I was just mentioning to Percy the other day that-"

Dudley had just started to fade into the nod-and-smile routine when she cut off abruptly and stared at the door.

"Son of a bitch," she breathed. He followed her gaze.

The people standing near the door had gone dead silent, and the tone was sweeping outward to fill the whole room. It was similar to the quiet that had taken over last month when Greyback's children had arrived, but at the same time worlds different. The silence only lasted for a few beats, and then erupted into noise: muttering, talking, shouting, and lurking underneath the words, a distinct growl from all across the room.

Last month they had brought in Greyback's children. This month, Greyback's men.

The twenty something men and women stood in the doorway as guards on either side of them pushed through the surrounding people to get them to the cage. Heavy manacles hung on their skeletal wrists and some seemed to shiver in their thin grey robes, even in the relative warmth of the summer evening. On each forehead, above wide, searching eyes, sat a shining silver circle that glowed softly in the dimming light. They looked small, sunken, and defeated. The crowd could not have hated them more.

"What the hell are they doing here?" shouted a wizard.

"You people haven't put down those dogs yet?" screamed a Muggle woman.

"Why not just cut to the chase and put us in Azkaban too?"

"I'll kill you!" A man lunged forward, hands grasping at the assembled prisoners, but was pushed back by a guard pointing a wand at him. Tears streamed down his face as he struggled.

"She was eight, you bastards! She was a goddamn kid!"

But anger was not the only feeling in the room. A few feet away from Dudley, an official held back a ten year old boy in light blue robes who was trying to rush the line. The boy's arms were outstretched towards the prisoners, as if to embrace them, as tears dripped down his chin. Another official held arms across the chests of two of the teenagers, who looked thoroughly mutinous.

"You can't just drag them through here in chains," argued the teenage girl. "They are soldiers in the war! They deserve dignity and respect, not the scorn of those too inferior to understand their mission!"

"Your attempts to degrade them are shallow and empty!" yelled the boy to her left, who couldn't have been more than fifteen. "You are just afraid of their might! I can smell your fear, filth."

The guards funneled the prisoners through the crowd and into the cage. Once inside, a woman with a large ring of keys went down the line and unlocked their manacles, scurrying away as soon as she was done. A tall man in dark blue robes closed the door behind her and then turned to the angry faces filling the room. He pointed his wand at his throat, and a heavy voice boomed across the hall.

"Quiet! My name is Gerhard Tennsley, of the Werewolf Registry. By order of the Ministry of Magic, these prisoners, afflicted with the disease of lycanthropy, will be housed in this facility during the hours of full moon. Afterwards, they will be returned to Azkaban Prison, which was deemed unfit for dealing with transformed werewolves." The crowd grew louder around him, but his magically-enhanced voice still trumped their combined noise. "While they are here, they shall not be harmed or interacted with in any manner. Extra guards have been assigned to make sure that they do not cause any damage to others. This night _will_ go smoothly. Any issues may be brought up with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at a later date." He lowered his wand and looked out across the yelling, angry people.

The press of bodies mostly obscured the cage, but Dudley got occasional glimpses at the people inside, standing away from the walls. So these were the people who had followed the werewolf leader. Strangely, he didn't feel anger right then; if anything, he felt a detached curiosity. Which of them had come to the safe house? Which sets of teeth and claws had torn his parents and protectors to pieces? Was there something familiar about any one of them: eyes that he remembered staring down, or teeth that matched the scars along his side? Which of these monsters (and that's what they were, no matter how starved or bruised or frail they looked) had made him an orphan?

"This is wrong." He had forgotten all about Audrey, still standing next to him. Her fists were clenched at her side. "Do you have any of that wolfsbane I gave you?" she asked, voice tense and thin.

"I left it at the Weasley's. Chewed it earlier and didn't want it to get stolen."

"I didn't bring any either. Not that I would have nearly enough. Dudley, this is going to turn into a bloodbath."

"Doesn't look like there's enough of them to attack."

"Not us, them. They're horrible people, but they're going to get slaughtered in there. I have to talk to Tennsley." She set off through the crowd, but she couldn't have gotten very far before the doors opened and people started flooding into the cages. The first few inside gave the prisoners a wide berth, but as more and more entered, the circle around them got smaller and smaller, trapping them in place.

The first to actually break the circle was the crying young boy who had fought to reach them. He pulled free of the officials and ran to a thin woman in the group, throwing his arms around her sharp frame, burying his face in the filthy rags around her shoulders. The young man who had gone on about might and fear leaned his forehead against that of a man with one eye. Blue-robed children edged closer around them, faces full of respect, or fear, or some twisted mixture of the two. He could see a claw-like hand patting little Molly on the head, tucking her hair behind her ear with affection. Lucy stood back, arms around herself, a tear running down her ravaged cheek.

It snuck up on him this time, as busy as he had been watching the people around him. His body twitched, he felt a churning in his gut, and everything started to change. Around him, people clutched hands to their abdomens and faces contorted with pain and anger. And above it all, called out Audrey's voice, already choked by the transformation.

"Everyone please stay calm! We are rational people! We all need to walk out of here in the morning!"

"We don't need some Muggle bitch defending us!" yelled one of the prisoners. Audrey's voice was growing more and more desperate.

"We're not weapons! We can't let them use us like this! We have to prove that we're better! We're naw weapawns, we'rrrrrrr-" and her voice cut off, morphing into a twisted howl. No one had been listening to her anyway. Even as their ears grew sharper and keener, their minds went, flooded in the anger and pain and confusion of it all. It had begun. And sunrise was far, far away.

**Overfull Courts Feel the Strain of Upcoming Trials**

As more and more charges are being filed against Death Eaters, Snatchers, and others who worked for the forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named during the war, the court systems are feeling the strain, and looking forward at a stream of trials that will not end until long into the future. Ministry officials are debating the merits of expanding the court systems and knocking lesser charges to juries other than the Wizengamont in order to save time and money. While none want a repeat of the incorrect incarcerations of figures from the first war such as Sirius Black's, the prospect of the sheer number of trials is daunting, and many are debating alternative ways of dealing with law-breakers.

How do you feel about the upcoming trials? Write to the Daily Prophet, Political Section, to make your voice heard.


	19. Chapter 19

Ch 19

It started the same. He dove at the bars, felt the flash and sting as he was denied again and again. But there was already something in the back of his mind, an urge that felt different than hunger, not as heavy or present, but hotter, sharper. A scent wafted through the air, and he could tell it was important. If he had been able to piece it together, he could have linked the scent to images: a refrigerator in pieces; a ripped pair of stockings; a heavy fist swinging out in the darkness. But he couldn't focus long enough to figure it out, even if he wanted to. There was something he needed to do.

Food was a lost cause, but there was still a hunt to be had. Pelts flashed past him, and he took bites where he could, but they didn't have that smell he was after. A young wolf clamped onto his side, but he shook it off quickly, moving on before it hit the floor. He pushed through scuffles and skirmishes, following the burning in his nose. And glory of all glories, it led him where he needed to be.

The only problem was that he was not alone.

The wolf with the circle shining through its fur screamed and wailed, a high pitched keening, while dozens of beasts fought over its flesh, pushing against each other, all searching for a place to bite. Fur and skin were ripped away in chunks, tossed aside in the pursuit of richer meat. The wolf kicked and slashed and flailed, all while trying to hug the ground, but it was useless. Its world was filled with paws and noses: any one it injured was replaced by three more.

He got close to the screaming thing, the source of the scent. He pushed aside beasts on either side of him; it was more important to him than it could ever be to them. He shoved and squeezed and fought, until it was there before him. Just a glimpse of leg, already torn to shreds, but it was all he needed. He clamped his jaws around it and he pulled and twisted and tore and his ears were filled with the screams and the growls of his fellow biters, and his nose was filled with the scent that had lingered for months, that had haunted his first delve into the moonlight, that had clung to the bodies in the room for weeks upon weeks.

The twitching limb was pulled from his mouth, but with good reason. One of the others had seized on a front leg and leaped over the body, flipping the victim onto its back. Its golden eyes went wide and full as they dove for the newly exposed belly. It kicked all four legs in the air, but against a dozen mouths, it meant nothing. Soft flesh split beneath rows of white teeth and it screeched as the mouths found its insides.

He dove with the rest and began to eat, a richer food than he had ever had, and it splattered across his muzzle and covered his head, and he smelled just like they had, in that house from several worlds ago.

It screamed and screamed and screamed, and when another beast went for its exposed throat, it must have been a blessing, a tooth filled kiss. It stopped moving.

Instantly, the flesh in his mouth lost its flavor. His treat had stopped moving, it no longer had a point, but he wanted more. There had to be more. He breathed deep, trying to find the scent somewhere else, shaking his head to clear his eyes of blood, so little of which was his own.

He ran through the darkness, searching it out. Other wolves screamed, converged on by ravaging monsters, but none of them were his. There would be time for those later, he knew, but he would find his first. Bright flashes of light flew past him, sunk and dispersed into other wolves' pelts, too busy in their work to even notice. Voices shouted words he didn't care to understand, and none of it mattered anymore, because he had found it.

It was small. Weak. Eyes looked out from deep inside its skull, watching the blood flow across the floor. The circle marked its head like a target. It hunkered down close to the bars, ignored by the others. It pulled itself in to avoid it all, make itself less of a target. It was scrawny, cowering, pathetic, its well-remembered scent the only thing that made him notice it.

It had not hurt anyone else. It never would again. It would be all his.

He leaped, and saw its eyes widen an instant before he struck. He shoved his jaws into its side, pushed it against the bars, and listened to it wail at the pain: the magic burning through its fur on one side, teeth breaking its ribs on the other. It twisted its head wildly to hold it off of the metal, eyes bulging and tongue hanging loose as it whined and yelped. He let go to get a better grip, and the scrawny thing struck, biting at his face and getting a grip over his mouth. He pulled back and tugged, feeling his lip tear between its desperate teeth. He slashed across its face with a paw, broke its grip, and really went to work, mouth now full of his own blood as well.

He pushed it onto its side, dodged flailing limbs. He wouldn't go for the throat, would not let this one lose its flavor, so he just filled his senses with the way its fur sizzled against the bars. He buried his teeth into its torso, felt it burst into his mouth, hot and wet, and it was obscene how much he enjoyed it.

Some others stumbled upon his little corner and joined in, taking their bites where they wanted. He would have turned on them, backed them away from his prey, but he was too busy digging for its insides, his nose too wonderfully full of burnt fur. Its whine was higher pitched than the first, a thin, warbling keen that sounded like music.

His teeth were knocked loose by a blow from behind that sent him tumbling into the bars. His eyes filled with lightning, and he slipped as his victim slid out from underneath him, chased by the other two, dripping blood and bile as it tried to run.

He turned to his attacker and faced the small thing, very small, barely more than a puppy, and a voice somewhere in the back of his head was wailing, but he didn't pay it any mind. The little thing stood its ground for an instant, before turning tail and running, and he was after it, longer strides helping him overtake in seconds. He knocked it to the ground and stood over the wriggling little thing.

_No no no no no no no_, said the voice, and its pleading, coupled with the little thing's scent, cooled a bit of the heat in his brain. He batted it across the face with a heavy paw, leaving deep scratches down its face, and then left it on the ground, wriggling and moaning.

He took off in pursuit of more. He was frustrated, denied the kill twice now, by the puppy, then by his own head. He would find his claimed one, and he would kill it. Then he would kill something else, and another, and another, and why shouldn't he? He was alive and able and strong and the moon was so very full.

**Dittany Farms Criticized for Low Production in Vital Months**

Apothecaries and hospitals alike have felt the sting of dittany shortages in the last war, and criticism has fallen on the farmers themselves, who have not been able to keep up with the demands of a population at war. "It's not like wheat, you know," one farmer defended himself with. "It's a finicky, rare plant that takes a while to come to full strength. I've got a good crop here, but people want to rush it. I would rather hold off and harvest a more powerful plant than sell something that people can't depend upon. But try telling them that," he said, as he gestured towards the country hospital down the road from his farm. Among the most powerful restorative plants, dittany is particularly difficult to grow and harvest; even the slightest error drastically decreases effectiveness. That has not stopped dozens of thieves, however, from ransacking dittany farms across the country. Desperation for healing has driven many to take these drastic measures, and one can only hope that the next harvest will provide enough to serve those in need.


	20. Chapter 20

Ch 20

When Dudley opened his eyes, he saw stars. Literally.

A shimmering yellow star hovered a meter above his head. A bit to the right, a green star. Next to it, a black star. And down past his feet, partially obscured by a number of people, a red star. They all twinkled softly in the morning light.

But the stars were not what had woken him. Something hot and salty was running down his throat. He tried to spit it out, but his skin screamed at the action with a pain that brought tears to his eyes. He gagged and coughed, trying to push it with his tongue, feeling it trickle down into his windpipe.

Finally he had the presence of mind to let his head loll to the side, resting his left cheek against the stone and letting the liquid flow out of his mouth. The right side of his face still screamed, even the faintest gust of air enough to make him tense in pain. It was the source of the liquid, the blood that was now pooling in front of his eyes. The dry tightness stretching from his eye to his right ear and all across his jaw told him his face was covered, and had been for some time. He wanted to touch it, feel what had happened, but just as the water glass had been miles away, so was his own face.

A pair of feet hurried past him, coming close to kicking him, but weaving around at the last moment. The person did not pause to look at the woman below the green star, who sat upright and cradled an arm that was bent in several extra places. Tears rolled down her face freely. Her supporting hand slipped, and she sucked in air through clenched teeth, whimpering under her breath as she rocked back and forth.

The black star hung over a blanket-covered pile.

Another pair of feet came into his vision, but these ones stopped. Knees came to rest on the floor, covered in lime green robes, and a hand touched his face lightly, moving over the source of the blood. He tried to yelp at the contact, get the hand to stop touching it, but the noise died in his dry throat. A thumb traced along the side of his face, and he wondered how the hand on his cheek seemed to be able to touch his gums at the same time.

"One more reminder," said a booming voice across the room, "Healers are to please focus their efforts on red star patients. Ministry officials will look after yellow star patients. If you are injured, but see a green star over your head, I must ask you to please be patient. Someone will see you soon."

The hand pulled away from his face and the feet scurried away. He wanted to ask for water, but the person was gone before he could form the words. The green star woman continued to cry.

He slipped in and out for a while, vaguely wondering when someone would help him and what the distant chiming sounds were, the ones that echoed across the hall every few minutes. Blood dripped into his mouth and up his nose, but he just spit or snorted it out when it got too bad. His side throbbed and burned, as did the rest of him, and he just wanted to go back to sleep, but he knew something was lurking there. Darkness from the night before, something he wanted nothing to do with.

It seemed like hours later that the next set of hands touched him.

"Wow, that's only a yellow star? Yeesh. Ah, wait, no, it looks worse than it is. Let's just get you cleaned up a bit and see what we're dealing with." His face suddenly felt looser, the caked-on blood cleared away. He blinked his newly clean eye and peered up at a young man in dark-blue robes, pointing a wand at his face. The man's eyes were heavy with dark bags, and his hands trembled slightly.

"Okay, that already looks much better. Drink this." A thin bottle was shoved into his mouth and something cold slid down his throat; he swallowed as fast as he could, not wanting whatever it was to spill out the side of his mouth. The new hands were pushing at his face, turning his head this way and that.

"Looks like more of a rip than a bite, there's only saliva on a bit of it. You're in luck, dittany should take care of most of that. Where did I put that bottle?"

The woman with the broken arm leaned over and began to vomit on the ground. Above her, the green star flashed and turned yellow, along with a loud chime. The young wizard whipped around to look her over. He dug through his pockets and pulled out a small purple pill.

"Try to get that down, hon, just need a moment to swallow." He resorted to shoving it into her mouth, and was rewarded when she stopped throwing up and her star turned back to green with a softer chime. He refocused on Dudley, a small bottle in his hand.

"This'll sting a bit, just hold still." Drops of something hit Dudley's face and he felt the skin move and pull of its own accord and smelled a light smoke.

"See, now that is doing much better, you'll get out of this okay. But dittany doesn't work with werewolf saliva, so we'll need to try something else for the bitten areas. Oh, I see you're a Muggle, so this next part will be familiar to you." The young man held up a needle and thread. "It's just like sewing."

It was a very good time to pass out.

-/-

-/-

The star down past his trainers kept changing color. It would flicker yellow, but when the Healers drew back for more than a minute, it would chime loudly and flush bright red again and they would dive back to work. He watched it over the bandage that now covered his lower face.

When it went from red to black, there was less of a chime and more of a deep bell toll.

"God DAMN IT!" A wizard in green robes threw his wand on the ground and ran his bloody hands through his short hair. A witch next to him put a hand on his shoulders; if Dudley hadn't been so close and ignored, he would not have heard her whisper.

"Come on, no, it's okay. You did good work, this guy was too far gone. You saved the kid earlier, you're fine." Her voice dropped even lower. "And look at the mark on his forehead; this was one of Greyback's. Do not let yourself take this too hard. We have other red stars to get to, and his is not worth getting distracted over. Take a breath, get some water, then meet me at the woman in the corner, Pye could use our help. We have to keep playing veterinarian here."

The man walked away. She pulled a blanket out of thin air and covered the body. It was stained red in seconds.

Dudley knew he should get up. He had been poked and prodded, pumped full of potions and stitched back together. The star above him cast green light over his face. The woman with the broken arm had long since left on her own, seeking out her own healing. Percy was probably waiting for him. He didn't want to think what it meant that Audrey hadn't found him yet. He should go find her, then get out of here.

But he couldn't move. All he could do was lie there and think about how he was done. With all of it. With wands and robes and Ministries he had never heard of and monsters. He would move in with Piers, have a normal life and not look back. Nothing like this happened in the normal world. Or at least not his part of it. He was done.

**Seventeen Werewolves Die in Canine Battle Royale**

The Lycanthrope Lunation Holding Facility has long been a trusted facility for the control of werewolves during the full moon, a place to keep them separate and away from potential innocent victims. But the inside of the Facility became a place of even greater violence and depravity than usual last night, as a fight broke out amongst the caged werewolves, one that left seventeen dead and many injured. Gerhard Tennsley, of the Werewolf Registry, responded to public concern: "The Lycanthrope Lunation Holding Facility is a secure institute, one that protects the public from werewolves at all costs. This incident is a tragedy, no doubt, but we must keep in mind the necessary precautions that must be taken to protect innocents, harsh as they may seem."

Of the seventeen, fourteen were accused followers of the werewolf leader Fenrir Greyback. Twelve of them were awaiting trial before the Wizengamont (the other two were being held at a specialty asylum, due to not yet being of age). The Werewolf Support Board has declared that they will be making an inquiry into this matter, although the details have yet to be seen.


	21. Chapter 21

Ch 21

He sits in the glow of the television and lets everything go. It's been over three months since he saw a working one. He lets it stand in for his brain.

-/-

Percy finally came in to find him, pushing past guards and stepping around stretchers. He tried not to stare at the bandage on Dudley's face. Dudley wondered if this was how Harry felt all the time. Percy promised to take him back to the Burrow as soon as they found out what happened to Audrey.

"Audrey Penn? Let me see." The witch consulted a list in front of her. "Started the day at red, moved to yellow a couple hours ago, and she's currently in St. Mungo's for follow-up care. Anything else I can help you –"

They disappeared before she could finish her sentence.

-/-

He should go to bed. But he doesn't want to. The television chases away sleep, and with it the dreams. He barely knows what he's watching right now. It's just better than the inside of his eyelids.

-/-

He laid in the bed that the Weasleys led him too, a glass of water resting on the bedside table. They discussed it right outside the door.

"I cannot believe they let something like this happen! It is a complete breach of more edicts pertaining to the interactions of inmates and citizens then I can even think of! What was the Department thinking? There were children in there, for Merlin's sake!"

"Percy, calm down dear, we can discuss this later. Now, did they say anything more about how to treat those scars on his face? Bill's took so long to heal. I just wonder if they had any more advice."

"They said he can go to a Muggle hospital in a few weeks to get the stitches taken out. Listen, Mum, everyone, I'm just going to quick head over to St. Mungo's before work, see how Audrey is doing. I need to return that book on magical border law to her anyway. She can have something to read in the ward."

A loud crack meant he was gone. Someone snorted a dark laugh, and George's voice followed.

"So snake bites were no big deal, but Merlin help him if the girlfriend got banged up a bit."

-/-

He could start up a video game. He was half way through a level when Piers got home. But that requires effort, focus. The setting and completion of goals. The television doesn't ask anything of him.

-/-

Mrs. Weasley brought up meals, even though she knew full well he could walk downstairs. He lay on his left side and studied the wall, getting to know all of its cracks and bumps. It was messed up, like him.

Percy kept trying to make conversation, but Dudley shut him down with monosyllables. The ginger rediscovered his voice with the family. He came home one evening on the warpath, going on and on about how the Werewolf Support Board was made up of apathetic old wizards and witches, people who were left there for their careers to die. "They need young blood," he said, "They need people who actually give a damn."

His father reminded him it was a pay cut. He said he didn't care. The family looked at him a bit differently after that.

-/-

He needs to start working on job applications. Piers doesn't say anything, but he grimaces when he comes home from the office and sees Dudley still on the couch. He should fill out the applications at least, just put off the interviews for later. He needs to wait until he can give a fake smile without popping a stitch.

-/-

The move into the new flat went smoothly. Harry and Mr. Weasley loaded up the car for the last time, driving through the country side in the early morning. None of them had spoken much since the full moon, but at least it was a more comfortable silence then the one on the way to Aunt Marge's.

Harry handed him a small brown bottle before they left, speaking quietly to avoid Piers. "It's dittany. Keep putting it on the cuts, it should help." They shook hands again, far too reminiscent of the year before, and he finally knew who the waste of space was in this pair.

Piers asked about the face, of course, but the answer "bar fight" and a glare for silence kept him quiet. He even started to take the mickey after a few days together ("So what do they call it when it's only one side, a Glasgow smirk?").

The flat was new and clean and they weren't allowed to smoke in it. Piers claimed he had stopped after dating some girl who hated the habit, so Dudley stood out on the walkway alone and blew smoke out over the parking lot. He wondered if any leaked out of his cheek, but he didn't have a mirror to check.

Piers' mum had gotten him a dehumidifier, so they sat in front of it once a week and shared a bowl. They lay back on pillows on the floor and watched the ceiling. When they had done this at Smeltings, they had talked about stupid stuff, rambled to each other. Now everything was either a secret or something he didn't want to talk about, so he stayed silent.

-/-

Sleep or a cigarette? He should eat at some point, but his mouth hurts if he chews too hard. The first morning he tried orange juice had been hell. The cigarette means getting off the cushions. Sleep means dealing with the dreams. So more television it is.

-/-

Harry's birthday was in a month, and Mrs. Weasley had already said he was invited. She had said he was invited to all sorts of things. Percy was spending his time between work, the Burrow, and Audrey's flat, but he still wrote him letters to ask how he was doing. Dudley couldn't completely cut them off. But for most of the hours of any given day, he could pretend it was something different, a fantasy world that he could come and go from whenever he wanted. If he were the reading type, he'd think of it as putting down the book. For him, it was changing the channel.

Until the channel followed him, in the form of a woman on crutches.

"Hello, Dudley."

"Hey, Audrey."

-/-

He had always turned to television. Just recovering from tail removal? Turn on cartoons. Dad's mad because the boy escaped out the window? There are always game shows. Serial killers lurking around every corner? Sports. Giant tongues and broken china? Soap operas. Demons try to suck out your soul? It doesn't matter, as long as it's loud and bright. Trapped in a house, parents dead? Stare out the window, because it's the only channel on.

Ripped faces seemed to respond well to commercials. Buy this, buy that, go see this, and give us your money. We can make you normal again.

And the best part was simple: commercials were always on.

-/-

She took a deep breath before she spoke, drumming her fingers on the armrest. Seeing her in the flat's sitting room was hard, a violation of the division. Dudley hoped she would say her bit and leave, especially before Piers came back. She shifted in her seat, sitting delicately on what had been a shattered pelvis just two weeks ago.

"My mum ducked out of the picture when I was pretty young," she said. "And for the longest time it felt like everything would always be messed up. And my dad sat me down and told me 'Audrey, life seems weird now. But you'll learn to adapt and you'll start to deal with it, and soon, what seems so dramatic now will be nothing more than the new normal.' And that honestly helped me, a lot. Years later, when I was bitten, that became the new normal. Last year, I was on the run, and that became normal. But this … this can't be normal. I don't want to live in a world where this is normal. I can't sit by and let it become normal."

She leaned forward and looked into his eyes.

"I need your help. I've been talking to as many people as will listen, trying to get some force built up. Percy's been talking about the Werewolf Support Board, sounds like he's going to get a job there, and that's great. But you? You're Harry Potter's cousin. I don't know how close you two are, but the title alone gives you some clout. You can do some real good."

She looked at him with eyes full of pleading. Her eyes were brown. Like the twin girls. He wondered if they had made it out alive.

"Sorry, I can't help you. I'm done… Guess I'm looking for that new normal too."

-/-

**Quidditch Seasons to Start Again, Fans Rejoice**

Fans across the country were ecstatic to hear that seven teams have agreed to participate in the upcoming Quidditch season. Some teams' stadiums have taken damage during the war, but team owners feel that they will be able to get them back in working order and full of fans. Other teams have put off the season due to issues of maintenance, while some claim personal issues. Puddlemere United, for one, lost a Chaser and had their Keeper injured during the war, and the team as a whole felt it would be in bad taste to start the team playing at the moment. The Holyhead Harpies, however, despite losing two team members during an attack at one of their games, feel that it is an honor to the memories of the fallen to continue playing their favorite sport.


	22. Chapter 22

Ch 22

The man at the desk had called over his manager. They held a whispered conversation, throwing glances at him every now and then. The manager put on an awkward smile.

"I'm sorry sir, but we have a policy against people with open wounds or sores boxing in the rings. It's a health code thing, I hope you understand."

"I just want to use the bags. And I have my own gloves and wraps."

"Oh…Well, I suppose there would be no harm in that. Just, like I said, please stay out of the rings. And the hot tub in the locker room. And please tell someone which shower you used afterwards. Enjoy your time here."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Dudley walked past the front desk and into the main hall, looking at the rings and bags and weight equipment stretched out in front of him. Middle of the day on a Tuesday, only a few people were in the rings, and a handful more on the wrestling mats. Two young women were going at each other in a mat in the corner while a coach watched and shouted advice to both of them.

"Keep your footing, Kenney. Don't let Bulstrode break your base."

The smaller Kenney was forced to her knees regardless of her coach's advice, and the large one with the square jaw was on top of her in an instant.

Not wanting to look like a creep, Dudley turned away from the match and wandered over to the bags. He set down his gym bag by a large hanging punching bag and started pulling out his wrappings, twisting the cloth over and around his hands in a practiced motion. This was going to be good. He slipped on the new gloves, hit them lightly against the vinyl to get the feel of them, then hauled back and punched the bag with all his might.

It swung slowly on its chain, drifting away and back towards fists that were ready for it. He punched it again, darted around to get it while it was on the back swing, jabbed at the thing from all sides, interspersed with heavy punches that rattled his arm more than they should have.

He had heard about some boxers who meditated, tried to get into the zone. This was his meditation. Punching had always been such as big part of his life. Looking back, he wished he had replaced faces with bags a lot sooner. Faces were a lot harder on the knuckles, and bags never whimpered.

His breath started to come in pants and sweat began soaking through his t-shirt. Most of the guys here were shirtless, and that's how he usually trained, but considering the fuss they had raised over his face, it didn't seem worth it to test them on his side.

He got more into the technique with each strike. His mind thinned out and focused. It didn't empty like it with television, but this was even better. Having just a few thoughts was better than none; it made it harder for stray ones to wander in.

"Hey! Bulstrode, cut it out!" Heads across the studio whipped over to the wrestling match. The women were separate, but the smaller one was holding her neck in a way that meant she had just gotten out of a choke hold. Both their faces were red and Bulstrode clenched her teeth aggressively.

"You're getting too worked up," said her coach. He pointed sharply across the room. "Go wail on a bag for a while, and come back when you're not out for blood."

She stomped across the room, casting glares at anyone who looked at her for more than a second. She grabbed a pair of wraps from a pile and swung them around her wrists with the ease of practice. As soon as she was set she was on the bag next to him, throwing her whole body into every swing. Just as quickly, she noticed Dudley watching her.

"Hey hatchet-face, if you can't focus on your goddamn bag for more than a minute, maybe you shouldn't be here!"

"Mill, don't be a bitch," one of the boxers called over. She went back to her furious pounding, as did he. He was nowhere near keeping pace with her. The months away from a proper gym were showing. He was boxing to forget, to become empty. So was she. Hers was just going out with a lot more force.

-/-

-/-

He finished his work out, showered, and even traded greetings with a few of the men. The name "Hatchet-face" was already starting to stick. He had an appointment later in the week to get the stitches out, and an interview with a grocery store the day after that. All of that was on his mind as he passed the pay phones outside the gym.

"Yeah, I can pick Lorelei up; it'll be about half an hour. I need to swing by and get Laurence and Kenneth first, they should be done soon." She smoothed her hair back, now free of the tight French braid it had been in earlier. "Uh huh. Yeah, alright. Regulation size or smaller? Well, Mum, if he's in Slytherin, he'll need more muscle to be a Chaser, that's just their playing style. Yes, I've mentioned it to him, he just says he'll be Huffle–"

Bulstrode noticed him waiting for the bus next to the phones and shot him a truly deadly glare. He hadn't been trying to listen in, but a few of those words had sounded familiar, and by now he associated anything strange with magic. Who knew, maybe every rambling bum on the street was some powerful warlock. It'd make about as much sense as anything else.

"I'll call you back, Mum. Yes, I'll get her … Chicken and rice tonight, that still okay? No, the soup needs to sit, that's for tomorrow. It'll be done around eight … Love you too. Bye."

She slammed down the phone and scowled at him.

"Got something to say?"

"No."

"Good. I'm sick of seeing your face. Go boxing in a ski mask next time."

She turned and stomped away, gym bag slung over her shoulders. He didn't ask her what year she had graduated Hogwarts, or what house she was in, or if she just happened to have heard of his famous cousin. Everyone had their things to run from. He wasn't about to ruin someone else's retreat.

**Sentencing Debate in Greyback Case**

The trial of Fenrir Greyback concluded this week, with the werewolf convicted of numerous counts of murder, kidnapping, treason, imprisonment, rape, molestation, and spreading the werewolf infection with clear intent. These court rulings are of no great surprise, even in light of the acquittal of some Death Eaters, such as Emory Nott; Greyback has never attempted to claim innocence for his actions, rather declaring them to be a political statement. With the end of his trial also comes the question of sentencing. The court clearly wishes to hand down the heaviest punishment possible, but with the departure of the dementors from Azkaban, many are considering the merits of the death penalty, which was abandoned within the magical community decades ago. A life sentence in Azkaban was once considered more than enough punishment for even the worst offenders, with the Dementor's Kiss only reserved for those who attempted to escape Azkaban. But without the dementors imposing their negative influence over the prison, the punishment to prisoners does not seem weighty enough to match their heinous crimes. Should someone as vile as Fenrir Greyback be put to death, or would incarcerating him for the rest of his natural life and cutting off his connections with his followers be enough? These questions hang over every guilty verdict handed down, and prompt a close look at the Ministry of Magic's regulations and decisions.


	23. Chapter 23

Ch 23

It was far less crowded than the previous month. The witch with the list skimmed over great sections of unmarked names before she came to his. The inside of the Cage brought home the point even more; not only was the room much emptier, but the people themselves seemed turned inwards, hesitant to touch the walls, huddling in small groups.

Piers certainly had his questions when Dudley started looking up bus and train schedules to get him out to the country. But if he said "going out" in the same tone he had explained the scar with "bar fight", Piers didn't press much. Even if he didn't use it often, a long running dominance definitely came in handy now and then.

Dudley went over to one of the alcoves on the side of the room, the one with small lockers to keep possessions in. A few witches and wizards were storing away their wands, setting the lockers to only open to them. He stashed a bottle of water and a box of protein bars in his. The train back to the city would be pretty long tomorrow, and the new job at the grocery store was working out well. They kept him exclusively in the back, except for occasional cleaning before and after open hours, but the discounts were good, the money was okay, and he had to admit that he found the constant presence of food comforting. He found himself thinking about what he would do if he had to go into hiding or a safe house again, exactly which things he would grab off the shelves in a hurry. The dehydrated stuff would be lighter, but what if he didn't have access to water? A can opener was a permanent resident in his backpack now, so the cans would be a definite asset. Beef stew with vegetables gave most everything a body needed, right? The job was a strange mix of paranoia-inducing and incredibly comforting. And it filled his days.

He saw a few people he recognized (which mostly meant they were Audrey's friends that he had stood beside once or twice). The tall blonde Liam stood with a few men and women, including the pair that had been talking about schools the first time he came. It seemed like years ago. Apparently their conversation hadn't ended yet.

"Send her to a Muggle school, if you have to. Get her in a good language course; give it a year, then split. It's no fuss."

"You seem so keen on getting Marni and I to go to Russia; why haven't you gone yourself, hmm?"

The man blushed and shuffled his feet.

"Well, wanted to make sure you were doing okay, didn't I? Not just gonna turn tail and run."

"And neither will we, so that's the end of it."

"That seems to be healing up nicely, kid." Liam's words shook him out of his absent-minded eavesdropping.

"Oh, thanks …been using dittany."

As that comment didn't seem to be starting any conversations, the two fell back into silence. But without Audrey giving a speech a minute, Dudley found he still had some questions.

"Why does everyone talk about Russia so much? Is it good for werewolves?"

Liam chuckled and shook his head a bit.

"Not nearly as good as people say. If you took popular opinion as truth, you'd think it was some snowy utopia. But yes, the farther north you go, the more accepting wizards tend to be towards werewolves."

"Why?" Given his home growing up, it wasn't a word that came to his lips naturally, but this was actually pretty interesting.

"They just have a longer history with us, and they've had more time to figure it out. Plus there's a wizarding school, Evdokimov Institute, that has made it part of their charter to accept werewolf students, plus whatever other half-breeds want to join. A lot of parents see it as a safe haven, a place where their kids won't have to hide. Not much help to you non-magic folk, but it's the principle, anyhow: the idea that there's somewhere where we're a bit closer to the everyday."

Normal. Liam went on about false hope, about unchecked idealization, but Dudley was already wondering which book stores near the flat would have English-to-Russian dictionaries.

"Ahh, and here's Audrey with her new man. A bit scrawnier than her usual type, gotta say."

Dudley followed Liam's gaze to the entrance. Audrey stood with Percy Weasley, both juggling large rolls of thick paper (who carried documents in rolls anymore?). Percy wore new dark purple robes, and Dudley could just make out a small bronze badge pinned to the front. He held a bright green feather in his hand as he surveyed the room. Audrey's lips were moving slightly, and she appeared to be counting the people in the room. They nodded to each other and went in opposite directions, Audrey to talk to an old woman with trembling hands, and Percy to talk to a man in his twenties who walked with a cane. Both took notes throughout their respective conversations.

"That lass is something, alright. She thinks she can change the world, or at least the parts relating to us furry folk." Liam gave a short laugh, accompanied with a grimace. "I don't want to be there on the day she realizes she can't."

In a way, Dudley was relieved to hear Liam's words. Every witch and wizard he had met so far had had a world-saving thing. And from all accounts he had come across, they had succeeded. It was nice to know that not everyone here was fixing to be a Messiah. Some just wanted to live their lives.

-/-

-/-

"… and then Lindsay said that I couldn't play with her stuffed occamy, but Mrs. Lipinski said she had to share, so she shared with me, and we played together, and I didn't rip it once, even though that was what she thought I was gonna do. And lunch yesterday was tuna sandwiches, which are my favorite, or at least they used to be, the beef sandwiches they make are really good, and I wanted to save my carrots for later, but Miss Nevin said that…"

Not even Molly was listening to her twin's story anymore. Dudley had been sitting on a bench when the children had all arrived, and Lucy had started into her monologue the second she sat down, barely sparing a glance at his face. Scars were nothing new for her and her own shifted and twitched as she spoke.

"And I used to tell all this stuff to Timothy, but he can't talk to me anymore, and the caretakers say they're too busy to listen, so I'm glad I can talk to you. You're nice."

She scooted closer to him on the bench. Molly pursed her lips.

"Timothy's nicer," Molly said, with all the six-year-old scorn she could muster. "It's stupid that we can't talk to him anymore."

From what he had gathered from Lucy's ramblings and Molly's veiled insults, there had been some sort of incident at the place they were all staying. While the twins and the rest of the children wore their normal blue robes, the teenagers of the group had come in wearing light green and were led by a different caretaker. Furthermore, a few of them had tied black handkerchiefs and pieces of cloth around their mouths. Whenever a caretaker would approach one, they would have a whispered argument that resulted in the cloth being taken away, only for it to be replaced from a store in the girl or boy's pocket as soon as the adult left.

Audrey was talking to one of the green robed girls, who lowered her self-made gag long enough to make her case. She declaimed loudly, "We are showing our solidarity for the fallen and the imprisoned. Our youth may keep us from making a statement in the corrupt courts of this land, but we still stand strong with the forces of Fenrir." She re-tied her handkerchief as soon as she had finished. The other silenced teenagers applauded her, while those without the bands shook their heads in disgust. Audrey hurried to jot down everything on her scroll.

Molly continued with her grumbling, kicking at the air with her dangling legs.

"What is 'undue influence' even mean? They're way nicer than the caretakers, like Mrs. Lipinski with her big stupid head. Even when we lived in the woods, they were nice, and Timothy made sure we always got enough to eat and that no one got hit except when they were bad." She was talking more to herself than anyone. "Sometimes I just wanna run away, and go back home and –"

"Hello, there." Molly was cut off by the arrival of Percy Weasley, parchment in hand. He reorganized an armful of used paper, nodding to Dudley in the meantime.

"Hello, Dudley. I hope you're doing well."

Dudley nodded. Audrey had been avoiding his eyes, but Percy had waved across the room when he noticed him earlier, so he wasn't quite sure where he stood.

"I have been very busy, of course, what with the new position and all." He shifted the papers enough to display the bronze badge: _Percy Weasley, Werewolf Support Board_. "Barely had time to think, much less have my three cigarettes a day. Or course, the lack of a smoking partner also makes it a depressingly solitary activity once again. I hadn't realized how used to it I had gotten." He smiled, and Dudley had to return it honestly this time. With Piers' new nicotine-free lifestyle, he had found the nights out on the balcony lonely as well.

Percy turned back to the girls, who were watching him closely. He kneeled down to be closer to their level, and rearranged the papers so he could extend a hand.

"Hello, my name is Percy Weasley. I work for the Werewolf Support Board, and I would like to talk to you for a few minutes. Would you like to answer some questions for me, please?" Lucy nodded enthusiastically at the prospect of a new listener, while Molly wrapped her arms around herself. Percy opened up a fresh roll of paper and set the green quill on it, balancing on its point. When he spoke again, it moved on its own, copying down what he said word for word. Lucy smiled as she watched it move, and started stretching her legs out off of the bench to try and nudge it with her shoe.

"What are your names?"

"I'm Lucy."

"It is very nice to meet you, Lucy." He turned to the other girl, who was glaring at the moving quill. "And what is your name?"

"Molly," she mumbled. Percy put on a wide smile, one of his calculated ones, but Dudley noticed it seemed to have a bit softer of an edge than he had seen before.

"That is a very lovely name. My mother's name is Molly."

Molly would not be taken in so easily.

"So? It's not a weird name. Lots of people's mums are named Molly."

"True. Why, I have fi – four brothers and one sister, and they all happen to have mothers named Molly."

For a moment, it seemed like it had gone over their heads, until Lucy covered her mouth and burst into giggles.

"That's stupid," said Molly, but she couldn't keep the slight smile off of her lips.

"Well, I never was the joker of the family."

"Molly's not either!" chimed in Lucy. Molly started to flush red, but Percy smiled at her again.

"It is very important to have serious people around as well. We get things done."

Percy began to ask them questions while the feather flew across the paper on the floor. Dudley listened casually, chancing glances around them. More people were filtering in, though still not as many as the month before. He noticed heavier scarring then he ever had before (and he assumed that those looking at him were thinking the same thing). Some of the teenagers, both black-handkerchief-ed and otherwise, edged closer to Percy, watching his interactions with the small girls. Dudley sat up straighter, trying to make a bigger silhouette. A few pairs of eyes flickered over to him, and they didn't edge any closer.

"– And Mr. Macnair told me that he liked watching when I transformed, 'cause my fur is real shiny and silvery. And he patted my hair and smiled, but Mr. Crabbe came over and got real mad." Lucy lowered her chin to her chest and put on a deep, rough voice. "'What are you, some kinda sicko perv? Stay away from the kids!' And he punched Mr. Macnair on his face a lot, and everyone was yelling and Timothy pulled us away, 'cause he's nice. But Mr. Macnair came by later, when his nose was still all bloody, and said that I was his favorite of all the werewolves, and that my scars looked pretty, and –"

Percy nodded slowly, with his face in a passive expression, but Dudley saw a twitch in his jaw similar to the one Dad wore when he was trying not to explode. Molly pulled her legs up to her chest on the bench, resting her chin on her knees and watching Percy with wide eyes.

Lucy's story was interrupted by a clang of the cage door opening. A caretaker came over to usher the girls into the transformation area, weaving through the flow of people.

"Bye, Percy! Dudley, come on, we gotta go inside!" Lucy took his hand and pulled him towards the door. Dudley looked back to wave farewell to Percy, and saw him still kneeling on the ground, level with Molly. He wrote hastily on a scrap of paper and pushed it into Molly's hand. She didn't seem to be saying anything, but she put it in her pocket nonetheless. She ran to catch up with Lucy and Dudley, while Percy stood and watched them go, hand over his mouth.

That was what came of trying to dig into other people's business. Dudley knew he had enough messy stuff in his life to sort through, he wasn't about to go digging for someone else's.

**The Chosen One Turns 18, Celebration Expected**

Next week, on July 31st, the Chosen One himself, Harry Potter, will turn eighteen years old, and expectations are already running high. There has not yet been any word of official celebrations, but many assume that a formal event will be held in honour of the young man who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Across the country, informal celebrations have been planned, and arguments have come from many sides that July 31st should be declared a national holiday. However he chooses to celebrate this day, Harry Potter should know that the whole nation is wishing him a Happy Birthday.

For a brief history of Harry Potter's involvement in the war, turn to page 7.

For a showing of early "Potter Parties", turn to page 9.


	24. Chapter 24

Ch 24

"So are you acting all weird 'cause you talked to Gordon? 'Cause he's a prick, and you shouldn't listen to him."

Dudley turned his head on his pillow to look at Piers (who had been hogging that bong for way too long). Before Dudley had worked through what the skinny boy had said, he continued.

"You're doing all this weird stuff to avoid me, right? Like learning Russian. Who the hell learns Russian?"

"Russian sucks. Did you know it's a whole different … letter … thing, with … alphabet! Yeah. I'm eighteen and re-learning my effing ABC's."

"But, like, why bother? And you're going to Harry's birthday tomorrow? What the hell? If you don't wanna hang with me, just say, man."

"Why wouldn't I wanna hang with you?"

"'Cause Gordon told you I'm a pouf, and he's right, but … oh shit, he hadn't told you, had he?"

Dudley's expression had given away his shock, despite how delayed it had been in his smoke-addled brain.

"Wait, so you like…with blokes and stuff?"

"Not like regular guys, just other poufs. But not the real sissy ones or anything. Like, I'm not gonna try kissing on you or anything. Gordon's just being a moron."

"Okay." Huh. So his best friend had been keeping a secret too…it would be a lot easier to handle if the bastard would hand over the bong.

"Oh, hey, shit, I've been boggarting this. Here you go."

That actually did make it easier, Dudley thought, as he held in his fresh hit. This was still the same guy he had shared joints with in school, who managed to find the best deals on weed when Dudley would have just bought the closest stuff around, who was letting him get high in the supposedly smoke-free flat. He exhaled.

"Hey, Piers, doesn't matter. Just don't come into my room while I'm sleeping or anything." And Dudley wouldn't come into his room and bite him. It seemed like a fair trade.

Piers kept his eyes on the ceiling; neither of them wanted this to get too weird. But there was a smile in his voice as he said, "Thanks, Big D."

It was a good hour before Piers realized.

"Hey, you never answered my question. Why've you been acting so weird?"

Dudley wanted to tell him. A pouf and a werewolf living together. It was almost like a television program. Once Piers stopped freaking out about it, they could have a good laugh. He'd never told Piers about Harry or his Aunt Lily, but that wasn't his own business. This werewolf thing was something he had to live with. Why not share it with a best friend?

"Shut up, my parents just died. I'll act as weird as I want."

"… Fair enough."

It made him kind of sad how easy that was. Harry was lucky that he didn't have any normal (Muggle) friends. Lying to them just sucked.

-/-

-/-

Harry's birthday was surprisingly small. Sure, they had never celebrated it at the Dursley's, but he had assumed that the Weasleys would make a bigger deal out of it. There was a really nice dinner, and a big fancy cake, and a lot of presents, but the whole thing seemed subdued. The birthday boy himself was spending more time in the living room then not, looking at the black-framed photographs. Dudley found him staring down a handsome figure with long black hair.

"He never got to see any of my birthdays," mumbled Harry, barely addressing Dudley. "Not even the first. But they," he pointed to a worn-looking man and a spiky haired woman, "were here just last year. They jumped over the fence when the Minister came."

"Why?" It said something that he found the fence-jumping stranger than his cousin getting a birthday visit from the Magic Prime Minister.

"He, Remus, was a werewolf. Tonk's wasn't, but they were worried that their marriage would get her in trouble too."

Dudley leaned closer and saw the scars covering the drawn and tired face. The woman by his side looked much more lively, not to mention whole and younger.

"How old were they? He looks about fifty."

"Nah, only thirty eight." He watched Dudley out of the corner of his eye. "I think the whole werewolf thing aged him faster."

One more thing he had to look forward to.

"They're Teddy's parents. You saw him before, the baby."

"And he's not a –"

"No. I guess that Audrey was right." Harry paused, on the brink of more words. "She's been around a lot, working with Percy. George reckons they'll announce the engagement any day now … She asked about you."

"Oh." He wandered down the line of pictures, looking at the long-gone faces.

"Yeah. She's been talking to me about helping her out, like a public statement. She wants me to bring up that I've got a werewolf in the family." Dudley shot him a sharp look. "But I won't do it without your permission."

"Good." He stopped in front of two pictures at the end. A man in a silly top hat and a woman with bright eyes. Eyes that had glared at him in the back seat of a car and watched him as she drew her last breath. And for a year in between, belonged to a watchful guardian, a household peacekeeper, and a gradual friend. He gently touched the small name plates beneath. Dedalus. Hestia. Weird names, old names, but ones that suited them.

"We wanted to invite you to their funerals." Harry had followed him over to their pictures. "But they were small, family only. Even the rest of the Order didn't go. Just Dedalus' son, Hestia's father, the like."

Dudley had never asked them about their families. Dedalus had kids? Was Hestia married? Always, even at the end, the Dursleys had been the focus of the safe house. He had barely known these people who had…

"It's horrible, having people give their lives for you." Dudley didn't have to ask how Harry knew. "You just keep wondering if you were worth it, and with every person on the list, it's more and more of a waste." Their eyes met, cousin-to-cousin, green looking into blue. "But I think you just have to try and live a life that makes the sacrifices a little more worthwhile."

Dudley looked away first. Of course he did. He wasn't the hero.

"Happy Birthday, Harry." He pulled the package out of his pocket and shoved it into Harry's hands. He had had to write to Percy for ideas (and a trip to go buy it, and actual wizarding money), but Percy had assured him that a book about famous Seekers and their strategies (whatever that meant) would go over well. Harry turned the package over in his hands.

"I still owe you a present."

"I have seventeen to make up. Don't worry about it."

-/-

-/-

The family sat in the living room after dinner, trying to both overhear and pretend that they weren't listening to the argument in the kitchen. Piers was home tonight, so no one could magic Dudley into the house, and his train didn't leave till later, so he sat by the fire as well.

Apparently Percy had dropped a bit of a bombshell on his parents earlier in the day. He had retreated to his room after the party, but Mrs. and Mr. Weasley were still discussing it.

"They've known each other for, what, two months? And he's just going to go live with her?" Mrs. Weasley's voice was occasionally punctuated by the sounds of clanking dishes as she and her husband cleaned.

"Mow, Molly, you know that's not what he said. They won't be in the same flat, or even the same building. There happened to be flats for rent on her block, that's all."

"Yes, and how long before he's swapping out with one of her roommates? And tell me, is there something wrong with his bedroom here that he needs a whole flat to himself?"

Mr. Weasley's voice was hushed when he answered. Everyone in the living room strained to hear.

"I suppose he got used to a more solitary lifestyle. Can't blame him for wanting a little privacy."

A loud clash of pots filled the air, as if she had thrown them down. Her voice was full of tears.

"I can't lose him again," she said. "Not now, not when he's been back for so little, and with Fred gone, and Arthur, is it too much to want my family together? Ron and Ginny chomping at the bit to return to school, Percy, i_Percy/i_, shacking up with some tart. And it's not because she's a werewolf, just like it wasn't about Fleur's…veela-ness…I just want to have my children home."

Mr. Weasley's voice was muffled, as if spoken into her shoulder. Dudley could picture them in the kitchen, arms around each other.

"We're not losing them. Not Percy, nor Bill, nor any of the others. He's not moving for a few weeks, and he's already extended an invitation for us to visit. This won't be like before. It won't." His voice got softer and softer, murmuring to his wife. "I miss Fred too. More than anything. But we can't let it change how we treat the rest of them."

Their voices trailed off, replaced by a soft sound that might have been crying. Until Mr. Weasley's voice called through the door, and everyone jumped.

"If you lot are going to eavesdrop, then you can come wash dishes."

That cleared the room quickly enough. Just like magic.

**Memorial for the Missing**

This upcoming Tuesday, hundreds will gather in the Ministry of Magic to pay tribute to those who went missing in the course of the war. While hope is still held that these men, women, and children will be found, the long months with no word have left families and friends feeling empty and alone. They are deprived of the closure of the families of the fallen. The official reason for the memorial is to "spread awareness of those still missing and offer solace to the waiting families". Hopefully the memorial will be able to accomplish both of those important goals.

To see a list of those still missing, turn to page 3.

Any information concerning the missing can be sent to the Daily Prophet Floo Hotline.


	25. Chapter 25

Ch 25

Life went on, as it did. Dudley's life fell into even more of a pattern, all of the parts ticking by on their own clocks. He worked in the grocery store, moving boxes and unloading trucks; his boss knew he was quiet, and his face told a bad story, so he was able to go about his business without much hassle. He made more of an effort to hang out with Piers, so video games, movies, and pot all had their place in his personal calendar. He'd go box a few times a week, now able to participate in actual matches. He rented a locker, and someone labeled it "Hatchet-face" and they all had a good laugh. If he went on Tuesdays, Millicent would be there, pounding the stuffing out of the female wrestlers and occasionally stepping into the ring with the men. They all started out feeling bad about fighting a girl, but her arm bar was good enough to cut off most sympathy, and she walked away bloody more than once. She shouted insults at anyone who looked at her sideways, but he'd heard worse. He was silently glad that she wasn't a boxer, so he didn't have to make excuses to not fight her; that girl was out for blood.

Percy moved into his new flat and started visiting Dudley occasionally, when Piers was away. They'd talk about neutral things, mostly how the Weasleys were doing, over cigarettes on the balcony. Apparently the oldest brother's wife had a baby on the way, and Mrs. Weasley was ecstatic about what would be the first of undoubtedly many grandchildren. Ron and Ginny were making headway in the Hogwarts debate (the school/battleground was re-opening after all). Harry was still up in the air; it wasn't like he had to finish school to get a job, ever. Dudley himself had started looking into more schooling, but the prospect of another year of book learning gave him a headache. Especially with how poorly his Russian was coming along.

How did people do it? There had been a boy at Smeltings, a real geek, who spoke six languages. Dudley, in all honesty, still had his issues with English, and adding another into the mix wasn't making it any easier. He had learned "hello", "goodbye", how to count to ten, and how to insult someone's mother (what was the point of a dictionary if you didn't look up fun stuff too?). He stuck with children's language books and lessons, stuff that was dumbed down enough for him to read after work and not get frustrated.

He knew it was a stupid idea in the first place. Even Liam had said that Russia wasn't much better. But that didn't stop it from building up in his mind: "If I learn Russian, I can move there and be even more normal." It became something of an obsession.

Speaking of obsessions, Audrey had come by the flat a few times, even once when Piers was over (who had pestered Dudley about it mercilessly later). Apparently her attempts at starting a campaign were not going over so well.

She'd try to talk to people in the Ministry, and they would brush her off: a young, Muggle werewolf wasn't worth wasting their time on. Percy made a bit more headway on that end, but not a lot. She'd write long editorials, testimonies, interviews, all of which no newspaper would print. And what she found most discouraging was how few werewolves would even give her the time of day. She still lived in the Muggle world, but she was trying to deal with wizards and witches, people who had a hard time walking down the street if others knew about them. For all her fervor and desire for change, she couldn't know what it was to be a wizarding werewolf. And she wanted him to come into all of that mess? What was she, mad?

Percy didn't bring her up much during his visits, but Dudley knew how hard they were both working. Percy seemed to have a spark in him that Dudley hadn't known before, a drive and energy, especially when the topic wandered to werewolf issues.

"I feel like I know what I am supposed to be doing now," he said one night, over a few drinks (beer for Dudley, coffee for Percy). "I have not felt that way in a long time. When I first started working, I thought that I was making real change, but that … that did not pan out. And then years of scrambling and crawling, anything to get a bit ahead… I do not know what I believed, deep down, but I knew what it was most advantageous for me to believe ... it was not worth it, not at all. This work that we are doing now? It feels worth it." He took a small sip of coffee, and smiled wryly into his cup. "And Dad won't hate me for this one."

Dudley had heard the story, the dramatic leaving and family conflict. He wasn't sure what he would have done in that situation; his parents had never really disagreed with anything he did.

"Does Audrey know about that stuff?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. We had a long discussion concerning it several weeks ago, rising out of an issue with my political history. She was not thrilled with the idea, of course. Loyalty and community are very strongly held values to her; I believe she would have made an excellent Hufflepuff. But she understands my regret for the past, and sees my devotions to her – to her political agenda. And besides, honesty is a key value in any working, um, business relationship."

Even if it hadn't sounded so weak, the blush coating his ears and neck would have been a dead giveaway.

Percy's birthday came and went, a small little party at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley had cried and hugged everyone a lot, rejoicing in her chance to celebrate her once-lost boy's birthday again; not even Audrey's presence threw off her mood. Percy had been keeping in correspondence with Molly and Lucy, trying to get a closer look at life inside the asylum, so two crayon-illustrated cards had arrived by owl mid way through the night. Only one of the presents exploded (George's, of course), Dudley managed to avoid Audrey for most of the evening, and over all it was a very nice party. Calm and normal.

Of course, the big issue was still part of Dudley's routine. Every month he made some crap excuse to Piers and took the train out to the country before moonrise. He'd get there, check in, chat a bit with a few people, and try to go about it as casually as possible. There wasn't much relaxed or regular about waking up on a stone floor, battered and bruised, but it still became just one more part of the routine. He was learning to separate the unpleasantness from his life, tuck it away somewhere else. His parents would have been proud.

All in all, it was simply too mediocre to last.

-/-

-/-

He knew that a woman crying out from a dark alley was one of those things that good people just didn't ignore. How many of his comic books had started with that exact scene, only for the hero to swoop in and fight all the bad guys? Add in that it was a familiar voice, and the idea of walking past the alley by the boxing studio, trudging through the wet snow, was blasphemy. Of course, in most woman-saving scenes, the cry was more along the lines of "Someone please help me!" and less "Get away from me you fucking piece of shit or I will blast you to pieces and feed you to my fucking cat!". And usually the alley in question didn't have blasts of red light coming out of it.

But it didn't matter that Millicent wasn't the typical damsel or that her wand was probably more useful than anything he had on him. You just don't walk past woman screaming in dark alleys.

He dashed around the corner, rearranging his gym bag over his shoulder to free up his fists, and was almost hit by the next red beam. Millicent stood in the middle of the alley, bag dropped at her feet and wand out, pointing at the tall figure across from her. The black cloak hid whether it was a man or a woman, and a smooth white mask covered the face, only exposing eyes that flashed in and out of shadow in the wand light.

"Hey! Get away from her!"

There were many ways his shout could have changed things. The actual result was the worst of the possibilities. Millicent's head jerked over to him, expression angry and eyes wide, but her opponent stayed focused on their task. The red beam shot from the hooded figure's wand and hit squarely in the side of her turned head. She collapsed straight down, legs splayed out beneath her in the snow.

The figure turned to him. It held out the wand straight, pointed at his chest. He could run. He wouldn't get far. He could fight. He wouldn't get two steps before it was over. He could beg. It wouldn't matter.

"Avada –"

"Fuck you, you Death Eater piece of shit!"

"… Stupefy."

The world went red, then black.

**Support Group Gains Numbers, Recognition**

Have you lost a loved one? Have you survived a traumatic experience during the course of the war? Then perhaps the Second War Survivors Support Group (SWSSG) is the place for you. In Diagon Alley, this group meets several nights a week, offering an ear and a shoulder to those who wish to discuss what they lived through in the last few years and come to peace with those events. As time has passed, many have felt more and more isolated; with the start of the school year, memories rattle around in empty nests. The founder of the group, Lian Ju Chang, extols the virtues of a forum to discuss these issues: "This is a place to be part of a community, to both touch and be touched" she says. "Many come in feeling that they cannot let themselves be open and vulnerable, but through helping others, they come to heal themselves. We are open to all, no matter where they are in their healing process. We want people to know that they don't have to be alone." Chang says she has seen the positive effects of grief counseling within her own family, and desires to spread the message as wide as possible. So drop by 72 Diagon Alley and join in the healing.


	26. Chapter 26

Ch 26

Waking up on stone floors was becoming far too common of an occurrence. At first he honestly thought he was at the Cage, and the aches in his muscles did little to contradict this idea. But it had only been a week since the last full moon, and if he had really been asleep that long, he had bigger problems. And the floor was too smooth for the Cage, and covered in a thin layer of grit.

"Mill," a voice next to him whispered insistently. "Mill, come on, wake up." Something shuffled, the sound of cloth being dragged across the floor. The voice had moved closer. "Millicent, get up now."

The voice paused, and then chuckled softly. "Of course, you are probably quite used to being begged awake. How about this: Mill, Laurence punched Belinda in the face, there's blood everywhere; we need you to get up now!"

"Huh? Whu?"

"I cannot believe that worked. Those children really have you trained."

Dudley slowly pried his eyes open and thanked the low light in the room that he was able to keep them open. Not that it seemed to be much of a room. From his view point, he could see a low-burning candle mounted on the stone wall, casting weak light over a bare mattress and one thin blanket. The voices were coming from his other side, trading hissed whispers back and forth.

"Theo, I, uh, what happened? Where are we, and, oh – oh god. What happened to your –"

"It's not quite as bad as it looks."

"Not as bad? You're missing your fucking –"

"The cuts are fairly clean; Tilly's been able to keep off infection. And I was never much of an athlete, it's not like I was using them."

"Oh god … ugh. That's just sick."

"Careful, Mill, you're going to give me a complex, lower my precious self-esteem."

"Like you've ever run short."

"Heh. But anyway, you're safe for now, he probably won't come back until tomorrow, and then we can figure out what we're going to do. At least we're together now, I can't tell you how long I've wanted someone to … Mill, wake up. Come on, stay awake." The voice was tinged with a strain of desperation.

"Not sleeping, just wanna stay down for a … jus' a second…"

"Mill, no, you need to talk to me, you can sleep later, and I just need to talk to someone. Please, Mill, just talk to me, I can't – I can't do this anymore, not when you're right here, and you just need to stay awake, please." The tone was drifting into outright panic.

"Why don' you talk to the Muggle?" Millicent's breathing slowed and softened as she was taken over by sleep, or passed out, or some mix of the two.

"The Muggle?" Even from his half-dazed position in the floor, Dudley could feel the attention as the voice turned on him. Cloth dragged across stone again as whatever it was moved closer. Dudley mustered together the energy to turn, to at least face what was coming towards him.

Given what his past several months had been, he wasn't sure what he had expected to see, what he was even prepared to look at. But a young, weedy-looking man with large eyes, gaunt cheeks, and stumps where Dudley assumed legs used to be…that certainly wasn't it. And apparently he wasn't what the young man was expecting to be looking at either.

"Hmm … don't think I've ever been this close to one of your kind. Is it safe to assume you don't bite?"

"…Not often."

-/-

-/-

Despite how much the young man had claimed to want to talk, he had instead elected to pull himself back over to the cot and wait until Millicent woke up. This gave Dudley a chance to look at his surroundings a bit more, not to mention work the kinks out of his muscles and joints. They were in a completely sealed room, about the size of a small one-person bedroom. There didn't seem to be any doors or windows or even joints in the wall; it was like being inside a bubble of rock. He knew there had to be a door somewhere, probably just hidden with magic. Wizards seemed keen on hiding things.

The man on the bed, who Millicent had called Theo, watched him as he stood up. Sitting on the bed gave Theo a bit more height, but Dudley still towered over him. The rest of Theo's body looked long and stretched out, and he had probably been tall, maybe taller than Dudley. That certainly wasn't the case now. The stumps were right above where knees would have been, and he rested his thin hands on the mattress to keep himself in a sitting position, hunching his back for balance.

Dudley had never been an especially vain person; he had shaken off being called fat and ugly for years. But the scar on his face had gotten to him a bit, and he still kept his shirt on at the gym, lest the other guys ask about his side. He knew in that moment that he would take a thousand more knives to the face, get even more scarred up then Lucy, rather than give up his legs. The man on the bed just looked pitiful.

"If you ever get out of here, your memory will be erased anyway, so let me speak freely. I am a powerful sorcerer, and if you look at me like that again, I will make your blood boil in your veins and cause your eyes to explode out of your skull. Do you understand?"

Dudley knew that, in the right circumstance, it could probably be done. In a world where your soul could be sucked out through your mouth, blood and eyes were probably easy. But he also had learned at least a few things in all his encounters with wizards.

"If you could do all that, why couldn't you fix your legs? Don't have your wand?"

Theo's eyes opened wide for a moment before re-narrowing. An appraising look flashed across his thin face: actual knowledge or a lucky guess?

"Lost them to Dark magic," he answered, each word chosen carefully. "Gamp's Law, and all that." He watched Dudley's face for a reaction. Dudley had no idea what a gamp was.

"Then why don't you Apparate out of here?"

"Muggle, my arse, Mill!" Millicent twitched on the floor, stirring in the blanket that Theo had tossed on top of her. Theo pulled himself to the edge of the bed.

"So I take it you don't have your wand either?"

"Never had one. I am a Muggle."

"But then how do you know-"

"My cousin's one. A wizard."

"Oh." Theo slumped back again, seeing his chance slip away from him. "Is he someone who might come looking for you?"

"Eh, maybe." Dudley weighed his options; how safe was it to say he was related to Harry? Sure, this man was in the same situation as he was, but that didn't put them on the same side.

All sorts of werewolves had gone into the cage, those months ago. That hadn't made them kin.

"Well, let's hope. I'm Theodore Nott, by the way. Most know me by 'Theo'."

He extended a hand. Dudley returned the shake.

"Dudley Dursley."

Theo's hand tightened around his, a suddenly iron grip. He stared into Dudley's eyes with his own dark ones.

"You are related to Harry freaking Potter," he whispered, "and you have the gall to say that no one is going to come looking for you? My father put the flesh and blood family of the Chosen One in a cage, and you don't think anyone is going to notice?"

Dudley pulled his hand away.

"Well, don't know how long it'll take them to notice."

"Just how stupid are you?"

"I'm not stupid."

"Aaaand, now I'm glad I don't talk to many Muggles. How long is Millicent going to sleep? Not anything to be rested for here."

"… How'd you know who my cousin is? Just by my name?"

"Why don't you go back to sleep? I wouldn't mind not talking to you."

"How'd you know, you legless little worm?" He moved closer to the bed, casting Theo in shadow. The insults flowed off his tongue with the old familiar feeling. He watched for the pain when they landed, but Theo just looked at him straight. He even smirked.

"The world's full of big bad people. I happened to grow up with one of the worst. And some of my fathers' friends are on the hairier side of the spectrum." The smugness held for another few seconds, before the full scope of the matter hit him. "… But you're still alive … were you … you were bitten, weren't you? That's how he's going to finally kill me, lock me up with a werewolf?"

"I think I will go back to sleep."

"No, you answer me, are you a werewolf? Dudley? Dudley, answer me! What day is it? How far away is the full moon? I don't exactly have a lunar calendar in here; it's not one of my many luxuries! He can't do this, he can't just put me in here with a monster, I won't – don't you go back to sleep! You get up here and talk to me! I'll come over there and –"

Dudley nestled down on a bit of floor farthest from the bed and turned away from the ranting man. He hadn't played the bully card in quite some time, and it did feel good in a twisted way, like slipping on a favorite old jacket. And he even had a new weapon in his arsenal. Nothing like two months alone to teach you how much silence hurts.

**Werewolf Support Board Calls for Cooperation; At the Risk of Public Safety?**

How much negotiation can take place when dealing with issues of public safety? The Werewolf Support Board, a subsidiary of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, has recently tried to raise publicity about what they deem "the abhorrent treatment of innocent people solely due to their condition, which they had no hand in bringing upon themselves". Peter Weasley, a young and relatively untrained member of the Support Board, in particular, has started campaigning for re-evaluation of werewolf rights and a restructuring of the protection measures taken to keep the public safe during the full moon. He claims that the Werewolf Support Board should be in constant communication with the Werewolf Registry and Werewolf Capture Unit, so that they may work together for the good of werewolves in Britain. However, critics of Weasley's campaign point out that the extraordinary work of the Werewolf Capture Unit in the last months has been one of the leading causes in the drop in werewolf-related deaths since the war. But their efforts have not been entirely successful, and with so many rogue werewolves still on the loose, the public has to question the logic in opening up discussions with monsters.


	27. Chapter 27

Ch 27

Eventually Theo stopped asking for answers that weren't coming, and they both laid in silence and waited for Millicent to wake up. Dudley wasn't sure what time it was or even what day it was. The candles didn't change at all, not even moving lower on their wicks. With the amount of soot climbing up the walls, he was surprised they could all still breathe, but no smoke hung in the air. Magic was apparently really good at making prisons.

Millicent finally woke up, what felt like hours later, with a jerk, knocking her head against the ground and muttering curses under her breath.

"The fuck? I-oh man. Don't tell me this is what I think it is."

"You're so eloquent in the mornings, Mill. Pure poetry, this."

"Theo, where are we? And why?"

Dudley sat up and turned to watch Theo; there was no point in pretending not to listen. Theo ran long hands through his stringy brown hair, exhaling slowly as he chose his words. He did not seem to be able to deliver a single word with sincerity; each and every one was doused in attitude before it left his mouth.

"Well, Mill, you know the general area. If you manage to dig straight up for about thirty feet, you'll be in the grounds of the Nott manor, somewhere in the garden, I believe. You could sprout up like some sort of large, swearing flower, scare away all the jarveys. As for why? Well, I know why I'm here: because the Ministry of Magic is full of idiots and cowards who won't convict an obviously guilty man if it means they can line their pockets with bloody gold. As for why you are here? I haven't the slightest. As for the Muggle? I suppose giving a prisoner a dumb pet for entertainment is one way to show kindness."

"Watch it, circus freak."

"I'm positively shaking on my stumps."

Millicent climbed to her feet, her size and frustration dwarfing the room around her.

"Are you two going to bicker like my little brothers or are we going to find a way out of here? I'm not about to starve to death in a hole in the ground."

"Oh, we won't starve," offered Theo with a dry smile. "Not if the pattern of the last few months continues. There's no fun in someone starving to death. No, Tilly Apparates in twice a day to keep the place clean and brings meals. There's even a water pump over there. No cups, but we can't have all the nice things. Chamber pot, air-replenishing spells, and I assume some sort of temperature control, seeing as I haven't frozen to death yet. The occasional torture session aside, this is a cozy little place to keep us going for years. And of course," he looked straight at Millicent, "anti-Apparition wards. Nothing but elf-magic can get you in or out. When the old man wants to see me, he has Tilly bring me out. You can see it hurts her, poor thing. It just breaks my heart."

"And I'm going to break your head if you don't cut the crap." Millicent had taken her turn at insulting Theo this time. His flippant tone while he described their upcoming lifetimes of desolation was one of the most frustrating things Dudley had ever heard. One wasn't supposed to be so calm about things like this. This situation wasn't…well, normal.

"There's no need to worry, Mill. We won't be here that much longer. At least not longer than a month."

"You have a plan to get out of here?"

"No. But you can ask your friend what's going to happen."

Millicent really looked at Dudley for the first time, taking in just who he was.

"How you doing, Hatchet-face?"

"Been better."

Theo chuckled at their interaction.

"Hatchet-face. I like that one; I'll have to remember it." Millicent ignored him.

"How'd you get here?"

Dudley wasn't sure how much to answer. He didn't know if she remembered anything, like how he had essentially been the one to get her caught.

"Saw some big wizard firing spells out you. I tried to help, but he shot some red stuff at me."

"You're a wizard?" she asked quickly.

"No, he's not," Theo cut in. "He's Harry Potter's own Muggle cousin. How could have met him but not know that?"

"I don't exactly interrogate everyone at the gym!"

"Ugh, that Muggle punching game that you do? Don't you have better ways to spend your time? Making sandwiches and darning socks, maybe?"

The slap came out of nowhere, knocking him down to the mattress, but he managed not to look too surprised. She didn't even look particularly mad. This was apparently just something they did.

"So," she said, as if she had not just struck down a legless man, "what was this one-month rubbish?"

The inevitable was put off for a bit longer when a loud crack split the still air of the room. A tiny figure appeared in the middle of the floor, holding a large tray with thin arms. Dudley had seen one of these before, a wrinkled, pathetic little thing beating at the floor, but this one looked different. Healthier, certainly, probably younger, and with a daintiness that maybe meant it was female. It had large blue eyes, pointy ears, and a thin covering of hair on its small head. Its voice pinged back and forth across the room, squeaky enough to bring bats to mind; he had to resist the urge to cover his ears.

"Master Theo, Tilly is glad to see you are awake. And you, Miss Millicent." She nodded to both of them before turning the giant orb eyes on him. "And Tilly is not knowing your name, sir."

"Uh, Dudley."

"Tilly is very glad to be meeting you, Mr. Dudley. Tilly only wishes it were under better circumstances." She set down the tray and began uncovering plates, each full of artfully prepared meat and vegetables. It became clear she wasn't going to say anything else when she started pouring milk from the pitcher. Theo cleared his throat to get her attention.

"Tilly, as much as I am looking forward to dinner, I do think that there are some more important issues at hand right now. For one, I seem to have gained some roommates. Care to shed some light on that?"

The little creature paused in her work, rubbing her hands along her skirt, which seemed to be comprised of upholstery.

"Mister Nott was telling Tilly all about it, sir. One of Mister Nott's dearest friends just had his trial, and it was not going so well. The courts were saying that Mister Thorfinn Rowle was guilty of being a dark wizard, and that he would be going to Azkaban."

Millicent drew in her breath sharply.

"And Mister Nott was going to see Mister Rowle before his sentencing," Tilly continued. "And Mister Nott is asking Mister Rowle if he could do anything for him. And Mister Rowle is saying that he is very worried about his family line and where his name will be carried on. Mister Rowle had made a mistake when he was younger, you see. He married a half-blood woman and made a child with her. Mister Rowle will be in Azkaban for a very long time and he would rather his line end then have a stain on it. And Mister Nott told him that he knew just what to do with treacherous children."

"GODDAMMIT!"

Dudley expected Millicent's outburst to turn into something more. The Millicent he had come to know over the last few months would probably follow it up by punching some walls. Instead, he watched as she sunk down to sit on the floor, head in her hands.

"Goddammit. Oh god, what the hell?" She looked up at Theo. "Seriously? We get through the whole damn war, and both get it in the aftermath? I ducked out of my last year of school, for god's sake. He's in prison. Of all the times, why now?"

Theo was biting back some sarcastic comment, but the look on Millicent's face made him swallow it. He simply said: "Wars don't end in the final battles." His hand drifted to the end of his leg, lightly touching the raw flesh. Dudley resisted the urge to hold the scar on his side. He had something he needed to know.

"Tilly," he asked, "why am I here?"

The elf turned her large eyes on him, away from her injured master. She looked confused.

"You, sir? I do not believe that Mister Nott is knowing you, sir. He said that a wizard interrupted him as he worked, and it would not do to leave a body lying around."

"He doesn't know who I am?"

"Tilly does not believe so. He did say he saw a bite on your side. You is being a werewolf, correct, sir?"

Both Millicent and Theo slowly turned to him, eyes wide.

"Uh, yeah."

"Mister Nott thought so. He said it would be a fitting way to get rid of traitors. He said they are nothing more than scrap meat; what better to do than feed them to dogs?"

**History Books Already in the Works: Is It Too Early for Perspective on the War?**

The publishing company Whizz Hard Books just released its list of releases for the next year, and many were surprised to see that several new or updated history books will soon hit shelves. These books take it upon themselves to cover the entirety of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's regime, from his rise to power to his defeat just earlier this year. While there is much analysis and thought to be had relating to these topics, many question whether proper time has passed to give perspective on these events. At a time when many families are still in mourning for those they lost in the final battles, can any level of objectivism be devoted to these delicate issues? Would the books just cover the larger events, such as the stories of Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter, or would they try to capture the full scale and scope of the entire war? While many of these books are sure to be popular hits, those who lived through the war may be disappointed with how little of their own experiences are captured on the page.


	28. Chapter 28

Ch 28

"What are you going to do if you get out of here?" Dudley lounged around in his cot, waiting for the answers.

"I'll invest in lumber so that I'll never run short on wooden legs," droned Theo in a deadpan.

"I'll go home and count every single hair on my brothers' and sisters' heads," muttered Mill. "And if even one is out of place, all hell will break loose."

They were good answers. He stared at the ceiling and tried to come up with another question, one he hadn't already asked.

This place made the Dursley's safe house look like an amusement park. There was, almost literally, nothing to do. There was nothing to read, nothing to watch, and nowhere to go. Tilly brought the food already prepared, so there was no work to be done there. The candles stayed at one level, no brighter or dimmer than ever. The walls were scratch-proof, so they couldn't change the scenery at all. Mill started keeping track of the days with tally marks in the soot, but that was a one person job. It was an oppressive level of boredom. Nothing ever changed.

Anxiety and worrying about impending death could only take up so many hours. They took their respective times to freak out, crying and hyperventilating in the corner while the other two politely looked away. But as hours turned into days turned into weeks, marked only by the arrival of meals, they had to turn to other pursuits.

So they talked.

It started out as bickering, a back and forth to kill the time. Or else Theo and Mill would talk about people they knew.

"Someone else tried to burn down the Parkinson place."

"How many attempts does that make it?"

"Up to four, last time I heard. In the last letter, Pansy talked about going to Spain to live with her sister. She might even borrow her brother-in-law's last name for a while to get away from the stigma. I hope her mum goes with her; it sounds like Rhodora Parkinson hardly leaves the house anymore." Mill paused, looking at Theo curiously. "Was it really as bad as it sounded?"

Theo exhaled slowly.

"She really should have known better. It was clear that popular opinion was going to side with Potter; if she wanted to leave, she could have just slipped out, like a lot of people did. Pansy was usually better at reading a crowd. But she was scared and she thought she was saying what everyone was thinking. She guessed wrong, and it sounds like she's paying for it." Theo turned to Dudley. "So did anyone ever mess with Potter's word back home? Anyone dare to cross the Chosen One?"

Dudley hadn't answered. It hadn't been until a few days later that they all started telling their stories, just to fill the air between meals.

"Family name. What absolute bollocks." Mill shifted on her cot, knee knocking against the wall. When Tilly had added the two extra beds, the room had started to feel like a crawlspace, cramped and tight. Or like a cupboard.

"I haven't been Millicent Rowle since I was two. Like Mum was going to keep his name after the divorce. Millicent Stuart until age eight, then on to Bulstrode when she re-married. And it's not like I ever fought to stick with Rowle. A Death Eater in a cell, trying to hide any mention of his ex-wife. Yeah, a great legacy. Kenelm Bulstrode was a great guy, a great dad to the little ones. Why I'd want any other name is beyond me…What's so funny, Hatchet?"

"I just didn't think wizards did things like that."

"What, divorce? Re-marriage?"

"Just doesn't seem very magical."

"It's a whimsical fucking fairy tale."

"Don't hold out for your Prince Smiling, Mill."

"It's Prince Charming, Theo. Don't try to make references you don't get. It leaves a hole in the snark that you can see the stupidity through."

And it continued this way. They all ended up speaking in turn, giving little bits and pieces of themselves. None of them expected to make it past the full moon; there was just no point in secrecy.

"So why did he cut off your legs? Is it some sort of wizard thing?"

"Would you believe me if I told you it was an inside joke?"

"And I thought I'd met some sickos."

"It's the Nott family motto. The original is in Old English, but it roughly translates to 'may every step take you miles'. A very Slytherin ideal, that. He had to officially disown me to make sure Tilly wouldn't take any orders from me. What better way to show it then to make sure I don't take any more steps?"

He raised his left stump to illustrate the point. Tilly came and changed the dressings every few days and helped him into a clean pair of pants, cut short so they didn't drag. Still, the folded-in flesh at the ends was nothing fun to look at.

"It does seem like a bit of overkill, though. I'm not about to run away. And his orders to Tilly are air-tight, no loopholes at all…he's smart like that."

"Shame he didn't pass it on."

"Shut up, Mill, you're just jealous, since all you got from your dad was a build like a troll and a temper to match."

"My father. My dad was Kenelm. My father's the one who got me here."

She always pressed that point. The title was very important to her. It kind of made sense; he had vague early memories of his mum telling Harry: "No, it is Aunt Petunia. I am Dudley's mummy, not yours." What you called someone really did color your relationship.

"Big D, tell me the one about Potter and your aunt's dogs again."

Of course his own story had come out too. Mill and Theo laughed at the childhood follies of the wizarding world's golden boy. Dudley tried not to dwell on his part of the bullying, but they kept pressing him for more.

"You shoved the Chosen One's head in a toilet. I'd brag about that all the time if I were you."

He skipped around through the years, telling bits here and there: the semesters at Smeltings, the odd summers with Harry home. They nodded with sympathy over the dementor story. Apparently those things had guarded the school for a year. They all knew they were no laughing matter.

"And after that, I just…I dunno…changed. Like, every time I'd start to mess with someone, I'd think about what they were looking at. Some big guy leaning over them, about to knock their lights out. And it…it didn't feel good. So I stopped."

Mill nodded, silently agreeing. Theo cocked an eyebrow, a silent but questioning gesture, head resting on his hands as he appraised Dudley.

"That is the least eloquent story of redemption I have ever heard. Never become a writer. But I'll ask: what happened next?"

"What do you mean?"

"What changed? You said you stopped bullying people, but what else changed? What new actions did you take?"

"Well…nothing. I just stopped being mean. Most of the time."

"I see. Tell me, how does it feel to be completely surrounded by people more interesting than yourself?"

"Theo, knock it off," said Millicent, trying to cut him off at the start. But Theo was not going to be interrupted at the beginning of a rant.

"No, it's a legitimate question." He turned back to Dudley, holding up his fingers to count off. "Your cousin is the Chosen One, savior of the entire wizarding world. Your aunt and uncle were the last casualties of the first war, sacrificing their lives for the good of all. Your own parents were among the last casualties of the second war, not to mention the guardians of the previously mentioned Chosen One. You were taken in by the family that practically makes up the entirety of the Order of the Phoenix these days, shared cigarettes with the ginger prodigal son, befriended a would-be werewolf revolutionary, and were chatted up by six-year-old war veterans. You are currently in a room with two offspring of Death Eaters, both of whom resisted the Dark Lord's regime and are now paying for it. Despite all of those people existing around you, my house-elf's story has more intrigue than yours. I've been listening to you talk for days-"

"Weeks."

"Thank you, Mill. Weeks. And all I know about you is that you were a bully, then you weren't, and now you're a werewolf. If it weren't for the fact that you are going to be the one to kill me in-"

"Nine days."

"-nine days, I'd say you were utterly inconsequential. You, my good man, are a side character."

…He'd never heard it set out like that before. Their conversation moved on, but Dudley's mind stayed fixed in one spot, on into the next day.

Had he ever done something that no one else could have done? He knew he wasn't one of the heroes; but did that make him a complete non-entity?

Dudley stared at the ceiling, counting away the minutes before Tilly next came, and he wondered what the use of all this was. In eight days, he was going to kill Mill and Theo. Hopefully, Mr. Nott would see fit to kill him then, but even if he didn't, Dudley would just away here until he went on his own. There weren't any opportunities for heroism here. He had had eighteen years to spend, to build with, and to use to their fullest. He had wasted them. And now he had nothing to do in the last eight days. Nothing to do but wait to kill, and wait to die.

"Hey Dudley, what about you? What would you do if you got out?"

"…I guess I don't really know."

**Former Minister of Magic Hospitalized**

Yesterday, Pius Thicknesse was rushed to the intensive care unit of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries for treatment, following an incident with a volatile potion. Thicknesse came into the public's eye last year, when he ascended from Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to Minister of Magic. However, Thicknesse was under an Imperius Curse, administered by Death Eaters, at the time, and he became the puppet figurehead of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's regime. After the war he was cleared of all charges, but still decided to step down from any office at the Ministry of Magic, electing instead to stay at home with his wife.

Thicknesse appears to be on the road to a full recovery, but his hospitalization had raised many questions. Thicknesse was never known to be a brewer of potions, relying instead on wand work in most situations. Combined with his reported change in demeanor after the war and retreat from the public eye, rumors are already flying that his injuries were self-inflicted, perhaps an attempt to poison himself and finally be free of the shame of being a tool of You-Know-Who. When questioned, his wife of twenty four years, Elaura Thicknesse, had this to say: "My husband is doing fine. He just had an accident with a potion, nothing more. What? You've never made a mistake? Please just leave us alone."

Hopefully these statements prove to be true, and Former Minister Thicknesse will continue to do well.


	29. Chapter 29

Ch 29

Dudley was sleeping when Tilly next came, pressing his face into his pillow to create the illusion of darkness. Tilly made a clear effort to distinguish between breakfast foods and dinner foods, giving a schedule to the night-less hours. He awoke to the sharp crack of her appearance and the smell of eggs, rubbing his eyes and groaning through the last traces of his nicotine cravings; the elf had stared at him blankly when he had asked about cigarettes.

Tilly looked different this morning, her motions hesitant and brow furrowed as she passed plates to each of them. Theo watched her slight movements across the room.

"Tilly? Is something the matter? Aside from all of the obvious."

She bit her tiny lip. She picked up a familiar looking thin package off of the tray and placed it on Dudley's cot. She did not meet his eyes when she spoke.

"Mister Nott was finding this in your gym bag. He was thinking that you would be finding use for this."

She disappeared without another word. She was so upset that she even forgot to pick up the previous night's dishes. He unwrapped the package and looked down at the three shriveled stalks with the last few blue flowers clinging to them; the remaining bits of Audrey's gift from all those months ago.

"Aconite." Millicent craned her neck to get a better view. "You had wolfsbane in your bag?"

"Yeah, Audrey gave it to me for my birthday."

"But why would he give it back to you? And what's so funny, Theo?"

Theo's thin shoulders shook and trembled; his hands clutched at the sheets beneath him.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"You're gonna have to enlighten us."

"It's a taunt. He's taunting us." His words came in a rush. "There's no way that could help us. Three unprocessed plants? You're going to be in an enclosed space for the whole night with two people, one of whom, you may have already noticed, is injured and occasionally openly bleeds. A potion by Snape himself wouldn't keep you calm. I'm laughing because it just really hit me that we're all going to fucking die."

Millicent and Dudley shared a quick look. Usually they all kept their breakdowns to themselves, but Theo looked different this time. He bit his lip, clamping down on laughter; Dudley couldn't help notice that his eyes were wet.

"Of course, that's not to say that the wolfsbane is completely useless," he continued. "It's poisonous as all get out, especially the magically-grown stuff. What do you say, Mill, how do you want to go? Ripped to shreds by a werewolf or choking on a deadly plant? We have a choice now! And why limit it there?" He gestured wildly around the cell. "We could smash our heads into the walls and see how many blows it takes. Drown ourselves with the water pump. Set the cots on fire and make a nice oven! Mill, you have strong hands, do you feel like snapping my neck? We're not getting out of here, but at least we get a nice tomb!"

His breath came in big gasps as he ran out of wind. All that was left was a whisper.

"I don't want to die."

-/-

-/-

They sat in silence for what probably was hours; ticking away their last days, wasting even more of their time, listening to each other breath and pretending not to cry. The thought finally formed in his head, pushing past the emotions.

"What would happen if I ate all of it?"

They both twitched at the interrupted silence.

"Huh?"

"If I ate the wolfsbane stuff. What would happen? Or could we, like…split it three ways?"

Theo let out a hollow laugh.

"A three-way suicide pact? I honestly like the sound of it."

"Could it work?"

"Probably not. You're able to chew on that stuff without a problem. If you ate one of them, it'd probably mess you up, but don't know if it'd kill you. You'd need to completely eat all three, leaving Mill and I in a bit of a lurch."

"But you'd be alive. No more werewolf."

"I'm still for Mill killing both of us and eating it herself."

"Will both of you shut the fuck up?" Millicent propped herself up on her arms, glaring at the two of them. "No one is killing themselves. Got it?"

"Are you looking forward to the teeth?"

Dudley wondered when he had turned into "the teeth".

"No, but I'm not about to cop out and run away from it. Let's see if we can face it with a little fucking dignity, shall we?"

"You're about to lecture me about facing things with dignity? Tell me, Miss Bulstrode, how did your seventh year at Hogwarts go?"

Millicent sat up slowly, piercing him with a death glare. "Don't you throw that in my face. I had the little ones to look after, you know that."

"How about the final battle? It wasn't all students there. Why not come back, face it with a little Slytherin pride?"

"What, like Vince? How about Greg? Or slip away in the middle like Pansy? Fuck Slytherin pride and fuck that goddamn hat; it never did anything for us. But this isn't about school, or houses, or our fathers, or even the war. This is about leaving your life on a good note, sending a good message."

"That no one is ever going to know." Theo enunciated each of his words carefully, letting each syllable hit. "Your brothers and sisters? Your mum? They're never going to know what happened to you. It doesn't matter what goes on down here. For all it matters, we're already gone. Why not make it a little easier?"

Millicent wanted to say something. Or jump up and slap Theo again. Dudley wanted her to.

But she let it go. They were all getting used to the idea of letting go.

**Researchers Worry about Side Effects of Sleep Potions**

For many, sleep potions become a staple of their daily lives, a ticket to a good night's rest in a single bottle. But researchers are now beginning to wonder about the potentials for sleep potion abuse and the possible side effects associated with prolonged use. "Sleep is something the body does naturally" said one potion master in an interview. "It is so easy to guide the body into a state of rest that not a lot of detail and attention is given to many sleep potions. People do not pay attention to what they can really do and the repercussions for the body. And of course, casual brewing can lead to some very negative results, up to and including comas. The body needs to be left alone sometimes, free to do what it needs to do." More will certainly come from these tests in the future and those who slip into dreamland with a little magical help should keep their ears open for any new developments.


	30. Chapter 30

Ch 30

"You don't have to, you know."

Dudley had thought they were both asleep. Sleep had been fleeting enough in the last week that he had been hard pressed to find the time when they were both out. The next night certainly wouldn't offer them any rest. Millicent was still hunkered down in her sheets. Theo spoke softly to avoid waking her.

"I won't blame you, no matter what you do. I'd like to stay alive, but at this point death might be better. I'm just sitting here rotting away. Even if I got out, I don't know if it'd be worth it. At least I could give you a nice little treat."

"I was stuck with bodies before…I don't think I could do that again."

"Fair enough. I'm not really looking forward to it either."

"Is…is there a chance that I could make it? Could it be enough to knock me out, but not kill me?"

"I don't have the right tools to figure out the dosage in those plants, since I don't know where they were grown or anything else about them. It would have to be carefully measured out to reach that balance. Just eating it…well, we could hope."

"What'll you guys do?"

"I don't know. Keep on living, I guess. Mill's gonna kill me for letting you do this. You mind if I say I was still asleep?"

"No problem, man."

"Thanks." He looked at Dudley, face blank. "… Like I said, you don't have to. It's…it's your choice. I won't mind either way." He leaned back down on his cot, rearranging the sheet over his truncated legs. "I'm going to go back to sleep now. Good night. If I see you tomorrow…well, I'll see you. If not…thanks." He turned towards the wall.

Dudley looked at Theo's back. He looked at Millicent's sleeping form. He looked at the stalks in his hands.

Time to be a hero.

-/-

-/-

He had chewed the wolfsbane before; it had always stung a bit, but it was nothing that he couldn't handle. When his cheek had been opened up, it smarted more, making the entire side of his face numb. His previous experiences with wolfsbane had been tough, but not horrible.

This?

This hurt.

This hurt like hell.

His gut felt like it was full of glass and his face was on fire. He curled up in his cot and clutched his sides as he lay on his sweat-soaked mattress. He heard voices; they were yelling in his ear, shouting at him. He couldn't tell how many there were; one, ten, a dozen or none at all. Colors blurred together before his eyes; impossible images formed in his mind. Apparently this was what came with sacrifices.

His side stung, red spider webs running along each of the scars, each of those marks for the people he lost along the way. A patch of raw tissue for Hestia. A torn muscle for Dedalus. Spilled blood and missing flesh and plenty of screams for Mum and Dad. A rip on his face for all of the skin that had burst beneath his jaws in the hallowed walls of the Cage. This was how Dudley Dursley would die, leaving a body covered in eulogies.

The hand in front of his face sprouted hair, plush grey and black fur pushing out of the skin. His trembling fingers extended into claws, tearing holes in the blanket beneath him. Fur. Lots of fur. Flying tails and paws and pack all around him. Women full of dreams and ideas, fighting against things they could never beat. Brown eyes floating in seas of scars, little faces that had known too much. Cigarette smoke drifting over crowds of red hair, parchment and feathers and badges and wands. All of it reflected in his stretching, changing skin.

His vision drowned in red, in blood and burning skin and a candle held strangely close. Bright, screaming red, and a growing blanket of black, bathing his eyes in darkness, but for a small flash of green.

**Announcements**

Obituaries

Arvind Patil, 93, passed away today after a long battle with spattergroit. He is sorely missed. He is survived by his wife, Daksha, his son, Balram, and his granddaughters, Parvati and Padma.

Engagements

Terrence Higgs and Penelope Clearwater have announced their engagement to be married. They are planning a wedding in June.

Births

Mary and Reginald Cattermole welcomed their fourth child into the world, Ronald David Cattermole. He is greeted by older sisters Maisie and Ellie and brother Alfred.


	31. Chapter 31

Ch 31

He woke up.

It wasn't on a stone floor. There was no cigarette smoke. He didn't appear to be bleeding. He was in a bed, covered by a blanket, supported by a pillow. The air was fresh and clean.

All together, it was one of the stranger mornings he had had recently.

"You're not dead."

Well, that answered that question.

"Everyone thought you were dead. But you're not."

He wasn't sure who "everyone" was. He wasn't even clear who was talking to him. He opened his eyes and looked at the little girl leaning over the edge of the hospital bed. No visible scars, so he was dealing with Molly. Or, according to the badge hovering before his eyes, _Molinda Ashenden, Werewolf/Child_.

"You're awake."

He tried to respond, but his throat was far too dry, emitting only a harsh rattle.

"That sounds weird."

She blinked at him for a bit, watching him trying to clear his throat. About a minute later, she had an idea.

"There's water. Do you want it?"

He decided that it would not be good form to glare at a small child, so he stuck with a nod. She reached over to a bedside table and carefully picked up a pitcher of water, tipping it into the cup next to it. It was too heavy for her and water splashed across the small pile of letters resting on the table.

"Sorry. They probably want you to read those. You want the water first?"

Must not glare at children. He nodded again. He clutched the glass in a shaking hand and tipped it down his throat, all the while looking around himself: white walls and privacy curtains, rows of empty beds beneath floating glass orbs. He managed to work out the first few words.

"Where am I?"

Molly folded her arms and leaned on the bed again. "The asylum. It's where us kids stay. You're in the hospital wing. I had to stay here last night with dragon pox, but I'm not contagious now, promise."

"Why?"

"Huh? You mean why are you here? Uhh, I overheard them say something about newspapers. And werewolf stuff. Your cousin seems really nice."

"He is."

"Cool."

He focused on his water, taking it in slowly. He never expected to have it again.

"Theo? Mill?"

"I don't know what you're saying. You should read those letters, 'cause I don't know stuff. Lucy snuck in earlier. She said they made you throw up a lot and made stuff ooze out of your skin. It sounded gross."

Rather than be regaled with second-hand details about his rescue from a child, he turned to the letters, hoping for a few more details. Each of them seemed to have been written in a hurry, though, giving only the most basic information. The first one was written in Harry's quick scrawl, green ink blotted across the page.

"Dudley,

I'm heading to the Ministry now, but I'll be back soon. You're in the Lycanthrope Asylum, a place for werewolves, mostly where they keep Fenrir's kids. I'll come and talk to you soon, get stuff sorted out. You're fine. Millicent Bulstrode and Theodore Nott are fine. Emory Nott is on the run. Stay where you are, you'll need to stay in the hospital wing for a few days, maybe weeks. Piers wants to talk to you, we'll let him come and talk to you soon. Do not try to leave; we don't want the Prophet hearing about this.

From,

Harry"

Mill and Theo were alright. He let out a long breath that he hadn't realized he was holding, and sunk back into his pillows; Molly tilted her head at the strange reaction. Once he sorted out his thoughts, he moved onto the next letter. It was written in Percy's tight text, clean and precise words marching line by line.

"Dear Dudley,

I will be in to see you as soon as possible, but things at the Werewolf Support Board are in a state of high energy at the moment. Your kidnapping is one of the most blatant examples of anti-werewolf persecution in the last year, and added together with your famous connections, there is a great deal to be done at the office (of course, it would help if my co-workers would step up, but I am willing to take the extra weight, all for a good cause). You will need to stay in the asylum hospital for some time to avoid the wave of publicity and heal from the wolfsbane poisoning (which we really need to discuss), and I will be able to come see you soon, either in a personal or a professional role. We have a great deal to go over, and of course I am glad to know that you are well.

Your friend,

Percy

P.S. If Molly or Lucy bother you too much, call a nurse. Neither of them is supposed to be in there to begin with."

Somehow Percy managed to be a buzz kill to others even on paper. He wasn't exactly looking forward to the explanation about the wolfsbane; everyone was going to make way too big of a deal about it. Dudley opened the last letter, an envelope made of regular paper, thin and plain among the yellow parchment.

"Dudley,

It's wonderful to know you're alright. It's been a rough couple of weeks, wondering where you were. I have to admit, I thought you had split for a while there, but you're too strong of a guy for that.

It's crazy how they found you. Apparently, transformation-tracking spells are all the new rage in intrusions on our personal rights and liberties. Everyone had been looking for you since Piers called Harry, but they couldn't get any magical signal until you started to transform. They were lucky to find you when they did, you were almost gone there.

I know I shouldn't complain, when they saved your life, but that kind of magic stays with me at night. How long before they're following us at all times? We live in a scary world. Which you definitely know.

I'll come in soon and see you. I've just got so much going on right now with the movement, not to mention scheduling around work (you try explaining to the manager at the paper store that you have werewolf business to do). But I'll get in to see you, you can count on it.

Feel better,

Audrey

P.S. Tell Molly and Lucy I said hi. I know they've broken into your room by now."

He set the letters down on top of his blankets. Molly had moved to a chair next to the bed; her legs were pulled up to her chest, her arms clutched around herself. Her eyes followed the letters and flicked up to his face.

"Are those from your mum and dad?" she asked.

"… No."

"Why not? Are they coming later?"

"No. They're dead."

She shifted, resting her chin on her knees and watching him closely, her eyes large.

"Are you sad about it?" She said it bluntly, with all the finesse of a six-year-old. But he had to admit, it felt better than when people tried to skirt around the issue.

"Yeah. Sometimes."

"Oh."

A few moments passed. Dudley considered closing his eyes again, going back into the surprisingly-not-death sleep.

"…My parents aren't dead."

Molly's eyes looked over him, seeing something far outside of the hospital wing.

"They took Lucy and me to go see them, after we got taken away from the pack. They kept us in the other room, but we listened in. She didn't want us anymore. I thought maybe it was 'cause Lucy's face was messed up, but that's not true. She didn't want either of us. So we have to live here."

She turned back to him.

"Are you gonna live here too now?"

"I don't think so."

A few tears welled up in her brown eyes.

"Uh, but I'll see if I can come visit you…or something…" He tried to scramble for something to say, but he didn't have much experience with children, and most of his experience with crying was in causing it, not stopping it. She didn't seem to be listening to him either way; she shook her head and buried it in her knees, mumbling quietly.

"I wish I had never gotten bit. It just messed everything up. I wanna go back home with my mum and dad. I want my sister's face to match mine again…I just want stuff to be normal again."

He was tired. His throat hurt. His whole body ached. But he had to say something: something important, something that could make sense of all the weirdness.

"…I get that. Bad stuff happens, and you…you don't know how to deal with it. And it seems like everything will be messed up forever…And it kind of is." She whimpered. He plowed on. "But you have to…I don't know. You take the bad stuff, and you try to deal with what you can, and change what you can't deal with, and you just…live, I guess. You figure it out, and you find a – a new normal. And you make it a better one. I…yeah, I guess that's it. You just have to make it as good as you can with what you've got."

She sat silently for a few moments. She wiped the tears out of her eyes.

"That's stupid."

"I'm not the smartest guy around."

She giggled, a small bit of a laugh.

"But I have friends who give pretty good advice. I just suck at putting it together…Pretend I didn't say 'suck', okay?"

She ignored the semi-curse, drumming her fingers against her blue robes.

"Like Percy" she said. "He's a really smart guy."

"Yeah, he is."

"He's really nice."

"Yeah."

She looked down, the faintest bit of a blush on her cheeks.

"…Does Percy have any kids?"

"Nope."

"Oh. Okay." She tucked her face back into her knees; he didn't comment on the small smile on her lips. At least she wasn't crying anymore.

She left soon after, chased out by a nurse who saw her "keeping the patient awake". The nurse checked him over quickly, muttering something about "Muggle remedies" when she prodded at the scar on his cheek. He was offered a sleeping potion, but he didn't need it; he knew he'd be out like a light soon enough and he had some stuff to finish before he went back to bed. He asked the nurse for paper and pen, and ended up with parchment and a quill. He had some letters to write and not a moment more to waste.

-/-

-/-

"Harry,

I'm feeling okay now. Tell Piers I'm doing good, I don't want him freaking out. And tell Mill and Theo that I'll come see them as soon as I can. Also, could you tell my boss I was attacked by wild dogs or something? I don't want to have to find a new job. I'll see you later.

Your cousin,

Dudley"

-/-

-/-

"Percy,

Don't worry about the publicity, I don't care. They can come and talk to me if they want. I've got nothing to hide. I'll see you as soon as you have time off work.

Your friend,

Dudley."

-/-

-/-

"Audrey,

I'm in.

Yours truly,

Dudley D. Dursley."

**Chosen One's Family Member is a Werewolf**

Dudley Dursley is a name that not many wizards would know, unless they were an avid reader of Potter trivia. Dursley, 18, is the cousin of Harry Potter himself, and the two young men were raised together in the same household by Dudley's parents, Vernon and Petunia Dursley. The family went into hiding a year and a half ago in an attempt to protect themselves from potential attack, brought on by their relation to one of the largest figures in the war. Unfortunately, tragedy struck when their safe house was discovered by a group of werewolves, most likely sent by the forces of the late Fenrir Greyback. Vernon and Petunia were killed, along with their wizard protectors, but Dudley managed to fight off his attackers, although he did sustain bite wounds in the process. And thus began Dudley Dursley's life as a werewolf.

For the last several months, the story has been kept hushed in order to lend privacy to the family in this stressful time. But yesterday, Dursley decided that the time for silence had passed and that he would be willing to show the world what he is. "Yeah, I'm a werewolf now," said Dursley. "And it's not great, but it's something I have to deal with. Just like all the other werewolves. The ones that keep getting abused and stuff. It's not right what wizards do to werewolves and people need to start paying attention. Especially pay attention to people like Audrey Penn." Penn, 24, is the recent founder of the Werewolf Rights Alliance, a group that, true to its name, is trying to fight for better treatment of werewolves in England and across the world.

But what does the Chosen One think of his newly-outspoken cousin? "I support Dudley. I really do," said Potter. "And I've known a lot of good werewolves in my life, and they have been so mistreated by the Ministry, not to mention people in general. The wizarding world cannot keep discriminating against them. It's just like the goblins, the elves, the centaurs, the giants, everyone. [He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named] is gone, but if we don't change things, someone else will just come along and convince the other creatures that he can give them a better deal. We need to make sure that he's not right."

Potter's solidarity with his cousin stands as an example of his strength of character, one of the many things that have made Potter such a hero. And, given Dursley's first dramatic step into the public eye, it is something that runs in the family.


	32. Chapter 32: Epilogue

Ch 32

Nineteen Years Later

The air in the Dursley house was split by squeals in the early morning, followed by near-hysterical giggling. The sharp noises had jerked Dudley awake, but the laughter assured him nothing was likely to be on fire, so he lay back on his pillow. The form next to him in bed shifted and muttered.

"Tol'ko pyat' minut," said Oksana Dursley. "Ona mozhet zhdat' yeshe pyat' minut, poka ya prosupayus."

"Davai, dorogaya," said Dudley, nudging his wife awake. "Ona kazhetsya deyatel'naya."

It had taken a while, but his years of study had paid off; Russian and English blended seamlessly together over the family's breakfast table. Two languages seemed to be his limit, however, as Irfan was always quick to point out.

There was a quick knock on the bedroom door, the click of wood on wood. The male voice called through the door, managing to sound both bored and amused.

"You two better get out here. Chrissy is practically running laps around the kitchen, and she'll come bursting in there next. Also, do you know where the sandpaper is? I got a scratch I want to smooth out."

Dudley stifled a yawn before answering his son.

"Top drawer by the counter. Tell her we'll be right out."

Irfan went off in search of the paper, leaving Dudley to get dressed. Oksana curled back into the warm covers, smiling.

"You think it's actually the letter?"

"It's got to be. We've all known it was coming for years, and she would have been fine if James hadn't gotten her all worked up about it."

"You're probably right. So how soon before she and Al are planning a party to celebrate?"

"What're the chances she's on the phone right now?"

They both smiled, picturing the usual scene at the Potter's house: Chrissy and Al trading back and forth anxieties about the future, Lily playing with her dolls, James and Irfan trying to look too cool and mature to play with the kids. But the thought of family visits did bring up another thought.

"I'm going to miss dinner on Saturday. Is that alright?"

Oksana cocked an eyebrow as she finally worked her way out of bed. Both of their work schedules were so hectic, that missed dinners were never that large of an issue.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes, but I got a letter from Aunt Marge the other day. She's not doing too well, and I think she could use the company."

She put on a tight smile, but he could see the clenched muscles in her jaw.

"Tell her I say 'zdravstvuite'."

They had stopped discussing Marge years ago, both having made their points, but the memories still stung. Oksana had put up with the old woman's comments about foreigners for quite some time, even when they popped up in less than inappropriate places (like their wedding reception), but the first Christmas after they adopted Irfan had been too much for either of them to stand. Marge had gotten Chrissy a large set of dolls, complete with outfits and accessories, honestly too much for the little three year old. She had turned to the eight year old and handed him a rubber ball; it looked like a dog toy.

Dudley and Oksana had agreed that the children were never going back to the house in the country, and he told Marge as much. She had seemed legitimately confused; Chrissy was their actual daughter, Irfan was just the boy staying with them, what did the gifts matter? Dudley had tried to explain, to make it clear that they were both his children, but he never got through. He still visited her occasionally, alone; her health was not doing well, between her age and her lifestyle. But she seemed happy, with all of her dogs and puppies. If that was what got her through the day, more luck to her. But he would not let her poison his family. They were too important to toy with.

As if cued by his thoughts, the pink-faced little girl burst through the door and practically flew onto their bed. An envelope was clutched in each hand and waved enthusiastically through the air.

"Mama! Dad! They both came! On the same day! I've never seen an owl that big; I think they had just the one fly all the way from Russia! Could I maybe get an owl? I'd use it to write you guys all the time, I promise!"

Dudley plucked the yellow parchment letter out of her hands and looked it over. It looked just like the ones that had flown down the chimney at Privet Drive, before he had even known about magic; it was decorated with the Hogwarts seal and addressed to "Miss Chrysanthemum H. Dursley". Oksana looked over the other envelope, reading the Cyrillic letters printed onto the silvery paper.

"So," she asked her daughter. "Do you know which one it's going to be?"

Chrissy's face shifted into a look of concentration in a second flat.

"I don't know. I want to go to school with Al and James and everyone. But Lucy keeps telling me about Evdokimov, and it sounds so cool, and I'd get to actually go to school with all my pen pals, and maybe go see Dedushka and Dedulya on the weekends. But if I go there, would I still get to see you guys on breaks?"

Dudley ruffled his hands through her blonde hair, laughing.

"We're there all the time anyway. Why would it ever be a problem? Irfan can come during breaks from Stonewall, but that goes for either school. You have time to choose."

"Oh. Okay. Hey, can we invite Molly and Lucy over for dinner? I want to tell them, and ask them all about Evdokimov. I've got to know before dinner with Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny, because James is going to try to get me all mixed up. Please?"

"I think Percy and Lucy are still in Greece, dear. But we can invite over Molly, and I need to talk to her mum about some work stuff." Chrissy nodded and wandered back out to the kitchen, not wanting to get caught in a conversation about Ministry work.

Not that he could blame her. Dudley's work with the Ministry often brought politics into the house: not the most interesting topic for an eleven year old girl. He wasn't officially associated with the Ministry of Magic, but his position in the WRA meant he spent a lot of time in the magical bureaucracy, arguing out matters of territories and passports and prisoner treatment. It was actually through his job that he met Oksana. Audrey had brought him along on a diplomatic trip to speak to the Russian Ministry of Magic about travel regulations for werewolves: having the cousin of a national hero come along made a powerful statement. The Russian side of the discussions just happened to contain a Muggle as well, a woman who had been born a werewolf and spent her entire life in the community. It had taken years to get to know her and get into her good graces, but they had managed to build their own little pack.

When he got finally out to the kitchen, he was glad to see that Irfan had found the sandpaper just fine. He had stripped off the outer, skin-toned, layer of his left arm and was rubbing at the scratched wood underneath, smoothing down the rough edges.

Both he and Oksana had been worried about adopting a boy who had had such a traumatic biting; welcoming a child such as that into an entire family of werewolves could be difficult. But large, sweet eyes had outweighed a missing arm, and besides, Dudley had had a favor to call in. He glanced at the glimmering logo branded into the wood of the false arm: "Nott and Co. Magical Prosthetics".

"Owl came in from Percy earlier," Irfan said. He didn't look up from his arm, but jerked his head towards the counter. "Letter's right there."

Dudley picked up the parchment letter, decorated with an official looking "M.o.M." insignia. Percy's title was stamped in place of a return address: Head of the Being Division. Every now and then he was offered a promotion, usually to the Head of the entire Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, sometimes higher. Percy was happy where he was, of course, and knew he was doing the most good where he was at; he had too many good connections in the werewolf, mermaid and hag communities to move somewhere else, and even the goblins and centaurs were coming along these days. But dreams of grandeur tend to linger, so he compensated by putting his official title on anything he could. Old habits died hard.

The envelope had two sheets of paper: one, an official summary of the interactions with the Greek Ministry of Magic and their discussions concerning lycanthropy: the second, a quick personal letter covering Lucy and his time there. When Percy and Audrey had taken it upon themselves to teach their new daughters Russian, to expand their options for later in life, Lucy had made a wonderful discovery: she didn't have to restrict her motor mouth to one language. She spent her school years absorbing as many different languages as possible and jumped right out of school into a job as a translator. She did not work exclusively with the Ministry, but whenever Percy needed someone who could juggle Mermish, Gobbledegook, Elvish, and Greek in one conversation, he knew who to call.

There was nothing urgent in the letter, nothing that had to be seen to before he headed to work later. He had to organize a meeting later that day, prepare himself for the dinner with Aunt Marge over the weekend, respond to an email from Piers, get tickets for Mill's prize match next month, and plan for the full moon. But for the moment he could sit and drink a cup of coffee.

His wife and daughter conversed in the other room. His son sat next to him. He rested his elbows on the kitchen table and read the newspaper, greeting the new day, surrounded by his family.

**Twenty Years of Paw Prints: A Retrospective**

By Molinda Weasley

This time next year, every newspaper in the country will be filled with stories looking back on the two decades since the defeat of Voldemort. But for me, this year is the big milestone, the one that I am most moved to write about, and the period of time that I feel the most strongly about. Twenty years ago, I was bitten by a werewolf. My twin sister was as well. We were taken away from our homes, stolen from our families, and forced to live through horrible things for almost a full year. We were five at the time.

We survived. Many did not. But from the day that we were "infected", our lives changed forever. We had entered a whole new category of society, one that was looked down on and discriminated against. Werewolf readers of this article will question the past tense, and they are right to. But for many years I did not dream that I would feel comfortable announcing to the world, in print nonetheless, that I am a lycanthrope. And the Daily Prophet of two decades ago would not have dreamed of hiring a lycanthrope as a writer. So look at how far we have already come. And how far we still have to go.

I have run alongside werewolves in the moonlight, and felt in my bones that they were family, creatures of my own kind. I have also been in bitter fights with werewolves, both in and out of fur, about everything from petty squabbles to our position in the world, in relation to wizards and Muggles alike. I have met good werewolves and bad werewolves, and more werewolves by far that fell between the two, just as I have known good, bad, and in between people of all types, races, and yes, species. We are just like everyone else; we just have a furry little problem.

On my seventeenth birthday, my birth mother showed up. I had not seen her since I was six years old, a little child wondering why her mum did not want to take her back. Insults were traded, tears were shed, and eventually we sat down to talk, mother and daughter. She tried to explain why she had done what she did. She said that she had not been able to deal with the idea of werewolf daughters; that she had preferred to live with the memory of my sister and me as we had been, rather than deal with the realities of what we had become. She had chosen to live in the past, rather than change her present to fit what she needed. She tried to cling to an older version of normality.

I have been blessed to live my life surrounded by driven people, people who do not lie down and take what life hands to them. My mother, my father, my sister, more family members and friends than I can possibly count, all devoted to their respective causes, all trying to make their own lives, the lives of those around them, and the world as a whole a better place. And in a lot of ways, they and many others have succeeded. Werewolf rights in Britain are in a better state than they have been in any living memory; the reformation of the Registry, the Lycanthrope Anti-Discrimination Act, and the election of several lycanthrope politicians to office: all of these are victories. The lycanthrope community has been able to become an actual community, one that stands together and fights for its own rights, in the face of the adversity that still exists in so many places.

All is not well. All will never be well. There is still evil in the world, and perhaps more dangerous, apathy. As long as those two things exist, there will be suffering, and they will always exist. Werewolves, wizards, and people in general must never say that the current state of the world is "good enough", lest we lose what we have fought so hard to gain, due to our own complacency. But while we continue to fight, we can take comfort in what we have accomplished: all of the things that were once beyond imagination but are now part of our daily realities. We can take comfort in the new normal, all the while reaching for the next normal.

-/-

-/-

(A/N: I just want to take a few moments to hand out some thanks. Thanks to my great betas, Little Miss Artemis and Hot Pink Coffee; this thing would be a typo-laden mess without you. To the mods at Dudley_Redeemed for setting up a great fest that got me writing this beast of a story. To masteroftrouble for the original prompt that piqued my interest and set off this story. And thanks to everyone, on LJ and FF, who has taken the time to read the entirety of this piece. I originally thought it was going to be four pages, maximum, but obviously words just kept coming, and I am glad someone wanted to continue reading them. Thanks everyone!)


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